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A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees,

Rolled round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks and stones and trees!


WHEN the brothers reached the gateway,
Eustace pointed with his lance

To the Horn which there was hanging;
Horn of the inheritance.

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 ages without record

Had the House of Lucie born,

Who of right had claim'd the lordship
By the 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,

As my 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:
From the castle forth they 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 land's 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;

He has nothing 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;

For the sound was heard by no one

Of the proclamation 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 on fair estate.

And, while thus in open day

Once he sate, as old books say,

A blast was uttered from the Horn,

Whereby 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.
Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern gate he slunk away.
Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide

His melancholy head, and there he died.
But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserv'd from murderers' hands,
And from pagan chains had rescued,
Liv'd with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:

And through ages, heirs of heirs,

A long posterity renown'd,

Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.



OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,
"Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
"Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night!
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
-This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,--
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor woman! dwelt alone.
"Twas well enough when Summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome Summer-day,
Then at her door the canty dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then how her old bones would shake,
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead!
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;

And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! whene'er in Winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile before-hand, wood or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,

When her old bones were cold and chill,

She left her fire, or left her bed,

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

2 B

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
-He hears a noise-he's all awake-
Again?-on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps-'Tis Goody Blake,
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about,
The bye-road back again to take,
He started forward with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last!
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm-
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm!"
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray,
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:

IIis face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

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