O bear me off!' Sir Elmer cried;
Before my painful fight
The combat fwims-Yet Hengift's vekt
I claim, as victor's right.'
Brave Hengift's fall the Saxons faw,
And all in terror Aed..
The bowmen to his cafle-gates
The bold Sir Elmer led.
Oh! wash my wounds, my fifter dear;
O pull this Saxon dart,
That, whizzing from young Hengift's arm,
Has almost pierc'd my heart.
• Yet in my hall his veft fhall hang;
And Britons, yet unborn,
Shall, with the trophies of to-day,
Their folemn feafts adorn.'
All trembling Mey beheld the vest
Oh, Merlin!' loud fhe cried,
Thy words are true-my flaughter'd love
• Shall have a breathlefs bride!
• Oh!-ftill he lives-he fmiles again-
• With all his grace he moves:
'I come-I come, where bow nor fpear
• Shall more disturb our loves!'
She fpake-fhe died. The Saxon dart
Was drawn from Elmer's fide;
And thrice he call'd his fifter Mey,
And thrice he groan'd, and died.
Where in the dale a mofs-grown cross
O'erfhades an aged thorn,
Sir Elmer's and young Hengift's corse
Were by the spearmen borne:
And there, all clad in robes of white,
With many a figh and tear,
The village maids to Hengift's grave
Did Mey's fair body bear.
And there, at dawn and fall of day,
All from the neighb'ring groves,
The turtles wail in widow'd notes,
And fing their hapless loves.
LD was the year, and dreary clos'd the day,
Nor moon, nor ftars, difpens'd one chearful ray;
The north wind whistled through the lofty tow'rs,
Driving the rattling rain in pond'rous fhow'rs;
Whilft the tall oaks, which fenc'd the caftle round,
Shrunk from the tempeft with a hollow found.
The melancholy bird, that reigns alone,
Affrighted, left her folitary throne;
And, on a turret perch'd, in Warwick's ears
Flutter'd her plumes, and fhriek'd her boding fears.
The chace-tired baron, and his nodding train,
Start from their flumbers at the piercing ftrain
Rouze, rouze!' he cried; with Malmfey fill the bowl!
Be dulnefs banish'd-till the curfew's knoll
• Summons my friends and vaffals to withdraw,'
From mirth and wine, to beds of fresh-laid ftraw *.
• More torches bring; let num'rous lights difplay
A blaze to emulate the beams of day.
‹ The hoary minflrel to our board invite,
His fongs fhall charm the terrors of the night;
Nor the rude winds invade us, whilft he fings,
In lofty ftrains, of Cimru's ancient kings!'
Fill'd were the bowls. The hall, bedeck'd with spoils, The bright atchievements of his martial toils, Soon to the guests a double luftre yields, By ftrong reflection from the burnish'd shields. Close by the baron's fide the harp was plac'd, That harp which once Llewellyn's court had grac'd. * However harsh this may found to a modern ear, in the old British court it was the business of the dryfawer, or porter, to provide straw for all the beds in the palace; and this cuftom of making beds merely of straw continued in the royal bed-chamber of England even to the conclufion of the thirteenth century. WHITAKER'S HISTORY OF MANCHESTER.
Hence the common faying, that a woman is in the ftraw, when he is in childbed.
Nor yet the mirth began, but waited ftill
For him who touch'd the wire with magick skill.
Slow was his step, who oft on Snowden fung,
A Bard thrice honour'd by the old and young ▲
His filver brows a filken fillet grac'd,
His beard hung waving to his girdled waist;
Erect in figure, and of comely mien,
Tho' fifty years twice told the feer had feen:
A ruffet kirtle hung below his knees,
Where just appear'd a coat of fable frieze ;
His limbs were bare, once us'd to mountain fnow,
And thongs of leather brac'd his fhoes below.
Ent'ring, he bow'd, with dignity and grace;
And, greeting all, by Warwick took his place.
Now to King Edward* were the goblets crown'd,
And now Philippa's health went briskly round;
Whilft the hall founded with a loud acclaim,
For infpiration dwelt upon her name.
Her matchlefs worth the men of Calais knew,
When, her fierce Edward's anger to fubdue,
The pearly treasures of her eye prevail'd,
Where e'en the fav'rite's + fupplication fail'd;
And ftout St. Pierre, whofe truly honour'd name
Shall live for ever in the rolls of Fame,
The brave Waffants, with thofe deferving few,
The trueft fubjects Gallia ever knew,
Refcu'd from death, the royal fuppliant fends,
With gifts and pardon, to their drooping friends.
A calm of filence now fucceeds the din,
Which Howel knew the fignal to begin.
After fome graces on the tuneful wire,
Some martial fymphonies, the foul to fire,
Bowing complacent to the noble throng,
The rev'rend minstrel thus began his fong-
Sir Walter Manny, a brave knight, much refpected by Edward III.
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