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Oh! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may
The help which slackening Piety requires;
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.

Our churches, invariably perhaps, stand east and west, but why is by few persons exactly known; nor, that the degree of deviation from due east often noticeable in the ancient ones was determined, in each particular case, by the point in the horizon, at which the sun rose upon the day of the saint to whom the church was dedicated. These observances of our ancestors, and the causes of them, are the subject of the following stanzas.

WHEN in the antique age of bow and spear
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail,
Came ministers of peace, intent to rear
The Mother Church in yon sequestered vale;

Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,
Through unremitting vigils of the night,
Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose.

He rose, and straight-as by divine command,
They, who had waited for that sign to trace
Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand
To the high altar its determined place;

Mindful of Him who in the Orient born
There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind.

So taught their creed;—nor failed the eastern sky, 'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse

The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die,
Long as the sun his gladsome course renews.

For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days
Our christian altar faithful to the east,

Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;

That obvious emblem giving to the eye
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,
That symbol of the day-spring from on high,
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave.




[A TRADITION transferred from the ancient mansion of Hutton John, the seat of the Hudlestons, to Egremont Castle.]

ERE the Brothers through the gateway
Issued forth with old and
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
Which for ages there had hung.
Horn it was which none could sound,
No one upon living ground,

Save He who came as rightful Heir

To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

Heirs from times of earliest record
Had the House of Lucie born,
Who of right had held the Lordship
Claimed by proof upon the Horn:

Each at the appointed hour

Tried the Horn,-it owned his power;

He was acknowledged: and the blast,

Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last.

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,

And to Hubert thus said he,

"What I speak this Horn shall witness

For thy better memory.

Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,

The words are uttered from my heart,

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last earnest prayer ere we depart.

On good service we are going
Life to risk by sea and land,

In which course if Christ our Saviour

Do my sinful soul demand,

Hither come thou back straightway,

Hubert, if alive that day;

Return, and sound the Horn, that we

May have a living House still left in thee!"

"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert;

"As I am thy Father's son,

What thou askest, noble Brother,

With God's favour shall be done."

So were both right well content:
Forth they from the Castle went,
And at the head of their Array

To Palestine the Brothers took their way.

Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour famed)

And where'er their strokes alighted,

There the Saracens were tamed.

Whence, then, could it come-the thought

By what evil spirit brought?

Oh! can a brave Man wish to take

His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake?

"Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,

"Deep he lies in Jordan flood."
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings."-Oh! that I
Could have seen my Brother die !
It was a pang that vexed him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard;
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his Castle Hubert sped;
Nothing has he now to dread.

But silent and by stealth he came,

And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn ;
No one's eye had seen him enter,
No one's ear had heard the Horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread;

And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;

And, as good men do, he sate

At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day

Once he sate, as old books say,

A blast was uttered from the Horn,
Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn.

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:

Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.

Hubert! though the blast be blown

He is helpless and alone:

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!

And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.

Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot;

And, if power to speak he had,

All are daunted, all the household

Smitten to the heart, and sad.

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