I love for thy dear sake-for they all sing
The same sweet song of thee-thou art their queen,
And they do worship thee, and win my love

By such true, graceful homage.

Cecily.
Where hast thou
Learned all this gallantry?-not in the camp
Of haughty Margaret, nor in the court
Of heaven-wearying Harry! hadst thou been
A soldier of the gay young king, who wins
A city with a kiss, I had not wonder'd.
But now-

Walter.

Nay, then it is my turn for jealous fit. What knows my Cecily of England's King, Whose favours are so valued? When, dear maid, Didst thou behold young Edward?

Cecily.

To tax the duty of our city, York,

When he came

Our maidens went to meet him at the gates,
And strew'd the way unto the castle's halls
With garlands, and with flowers-he did pay
Our citizens with oaths-the maids with kisscs,
All that he thought most worthy-when it came
Unto my turn to touch his laughing lips,
One of his lords, upon a pointed spear,
Thrust straight between us a pale griesly head
Still streaming blood-a venerable face-
Tranquil-but the white locks were clotted. I

Drew back, and shriek'd-but Edward laugh'd, and bade

Them wash the soiled face, and trim the beard,

And send it to his lady! then he turn'd

Gaily to kiss my redder lip, he said

But found that red lip pale!

Walter.

Cecily.

The savage!

Hush!

He is our master now!-I thought at first
He was a lovely youth; but from my thought
The trace went of his features, and I saw

Nought but the gory head-the old

gray Man!

That rises oft, and when I try to call

The image of the monarch, it still comes

Between my face and his.-But this is sad.
Come, tell me of thy journies, and the sights,

Thou must perforce have seen. They tell us here
The Saracen doth kill his prisoners,

Unless they turn to Mahound, and become
Liegemen unto the fiend! and then they are
Endow'd with wond'rous powers, and fly in air,
And walk on water, and exchange their shapes
With animals and birds!

Walter.
Not so the Moor
Is knightly to the captive; but when last
I was in Grenada, (before the Queen
Recall'd all wand'rers from Castilian wars,
To try their valour on the fatal field

Of Tewksbury,) most wond'rous things I saw

Achiev'd by one, an old Toledan he,
By magic's fearful power. He did use

To mock the Moorish squadrons, with a sight
Of armies ready to engage, and threw

Before their path a bridge of yielding air,

To tempt their passage; and when they would risk
Over the phantom path, it stood until

Its shadowy sides were crowded—then it sunk,
And with it sunk the Saracens-and so

The unbelievers died!

Cecily.

Most terrible!

And strange!-but didst thou see with thine own eyes
These wonders, gentle Walter ? did he ere
Shew spirits to thy senses?

Walter.
Sooth he did-
And I, (as thou makest question,) truly saw
The Moorish knights fall, horse and man, into
The fiercely foaming river! but that man!
He was the king of wonders. Oftentimes
In my lone mood I wander'd to his haunts ;-
A deep, dark wood it was, and in a cave
Embosom'd in the shade of ancient trees
The stern magician dwelt. There as I stood,
Listening the heavy groans of the swung boughs,
And far off roarings of the coming storm,
I have thought other voices mingled there,
More hollow and more awful. It may be
The gloom did cheat my senses, but I thought
I have seen forms within that dreary wood,
That were unfit for gayer dwelling-place-
Strange things, that swept before me like a sheet
Of dazzling snow, driven by the Winter's blast-
Then suddenly they grew more form'd, and then
I saw wild eyes that flash'd, and lips that grinn'd
And gibber'd with uncouthly utterings.

I met no danger; but once, as I stay'd
Beyond my time, until the maiden Moon
Had modestly retired, that the fiends
Might do their orgies unmolested by
The brightness of her brow, the Master came,
And saw me lingering there! he sternly chid
My idle wanderings-bade me, as I loved
My own life's safety, not to seek his bowers.
Cecily. If thou lovest spirits, and hast not a fear
To seek them in their haunts, in happy time
Art thou return'd unto thy parent roof.
Thou know'st this is the fourth month of the year,
The childish April, who, 'mid tears and smiles,
Hath pass'd full four-and-twenty days of age;
But ere he die, and yield his grassy throne
To his young sister, lily-sceptred May,
One of his days we yearly celebrate.
This is St Mark, and this-this is the night;—
Now then, if any in the porch shall watch
Of the old church, alone at midnight hour,
They will, within the church-yard stalking, see
The shades of those who 'neath its surface lie,
Mingling in wildest dance with forms of those
Who living yet, but ere the year expire,
Shall join the shadowy group for ever, and
Sleep in the grave with them!

Walter. Ah, I will watch'

To-night! I will be there. Dear Cecily,
Of this instruct me further.-I do love
This high mysterious feeling!-let us go-
Long hours it is since rung the Curfew bell-
I pray thee, let me go!

Cecily.

Not danger-fraught This quest, I trust, dear Walter-But I will Not mar thy wishes-Come.

(Exeunt.)

Scene, the Churchyard-Walter sitting in the Porch. Walter. How beautiful is Night when vested thus! With what a soft solemnity she glides

Onward unto her death!—And when she dies,
What will the hours bring!-O, they will come
Laughing and jocund Mirth, with his gay train
Will join them, ushering in my bridal morn-
The crowned day of the poor Wanderer's life-
The day that shall behold the Wanderer bless'd,
And gathering to his bosom the one flower
His boyish hand had cherish'd-I am happy,
And yet I weep!—but this is luxury,
My heart is full, too full, and would relieve
By tears, its agony of happiness-
I love this hour!-the spirits are abroad,
Sporting upon the air, or on the waves
Dancing fantastic measures-riding on,

With antic tricks, the clouds, which when we see
Distorted to strange shapes of foul and fair,
As monsters, demons, rocks or palaces,
Or armed men, or angels with bright wings,
We may assure our wits they are the spirits
Appearing to our eyes in those quaint forms.-
But I am here to meet more awful shades-
The spectres of the gone!-the human race;
But now no longer human-and the shapes
Of the death-summoned; but living now,
Though yet condemned to the silent grave,
Before the year depart!-Ah! am I wise
To seek this fearful knowledge !-What if I,
Among the shades, behold the face of one
My heart hath fondly loved! Sweet Mary! thou
Avert that evil!-but, O Lady dear,

Wilt thou accept my prayer! I have thrown off,
For this wild gest, the image of thy Son,

Which from my childhood round my neck I wore,
And from my bosom rent the amulet,

The Agnus Dei, which my mother's hand
Bound on my breast, and bade it guard her son
From storm and tempest, and which still hath been,
Till now, my loved companion.-Well, I have
Companions here will tell me graver tales.
Here are the records of a hundred lives-
The busy history of many years-
The proclamation of bold active deeds-
Summ'd up in the "hic jacet," and the hope
"Requiescunt in pace"-And although
In life the cause was various, as the hues
Of summer and of spring, and many tongues

Rung the different tale, now 'tis the same,

And one phrase serves for all!-But, hark! what sound Like distant music swells upon the wind,

And

sweeps around the porch!—A mist hath risen

And cover'd in its folds the gates, the tombs ;
And all that but a moment since was clear,
And to my vision sensible, is wrapp'd

In that concealing mantle-Soft! it clears,
And-ha!-it is the lonely midnight hour!
The realm of Death hath sent her subjects forth
To people this our upper world, and walk
In visible shape among us !—the thick mist
That hid their rising, hath retired, and left
Their shadowy forms unveil'd-how solemnly
They pace among the tombs-how hollow is
Their silent greeting!-some have in their hands
Branches of yew, and others garlands bear
Of funeral cypress-but I mark

No face among them that to me doth bring
Remembrance of the living.-Music! -hark-
And some one hollowly doth strike upon
The ponderous iron gate !-It opens! And
A spectral stranger comes-the mirror'd form
Of a yet living man-They go to meet
And welcome to their sad and dreary land,
With shadowy courtesy and solemn smiles,
The silent visitant-they strew his path

With the death-garland-and-sure-they do sing
Their dirge-like welcome-let me catch the words
They utter!

CHORUS.

The wanderer is come home-come home
Unto his native soil-

Finish'd his journies-he will roam

No more-no more will toil.

He cometh to a place of rest

He cometh to his mother's breast.

Walter. Why hath my heart died at the shadowy song,
And my brow dew'd itself with drops of fear !—
Mine eyes are fix'd with fascination's gaze
Upon the spectre of the living dead!—
This way he comes towards a new made grave,
And all the shadows follow-Now I shall
Behold the death-struck face-he turns-it is-
O God! myself I see !-my form-it sinks
Into the new made grave-and all the rest
Have vanish'd!-I am the condemn'd-I am
The murder'd of the year-and I shall die
When life has open'd all her charms to make
Me cling with love unto her!-Cecily,
My parent roof-my native land-all-all
Now centre in yon little new-made grave-
For that I must resign ye. O warm hearth,
And gentle kiss of love, I lose ye both
For the chill bed and cold and icy lip

Of the stern bride which fate has destined me

Oh, I must die-and from all things I love

Be torn away for ever-Cecily

O parent roof, farewell!

[He faints

A Year after the preceding-Scene, the River's Bank-Evening.

Walter-Cecily enters to him.

Cecily. Well, Walter, I shall laugh at thee to-morrow. Evening is come, of the last fated day

Of thy tremendous year.

If thou speak'st thus, I must of force believe,
Thou dost not wish thy spousals-that thy love
Hath, with thy sickness, died for Cecily.

Walter. Oh wrong me not-for if to-morrow's sun
Shall see me living man-thou, Cecily,
Shalt be mine own for ever-Thou hast said,
I must have slept within the lonely porch,
And had a fearful dream-because you found
Me fainting in the church-yard, on a tomb,
And of the new-made grave of which I raved
There was no trace, and for that I have been
Since then a suffering maniac, though now
Restored to thee and reason-may thy thought
Be true, dear Cecily; but I have seen
Wild madmen lose their frenzy ere they die,
And speak in tones of wisdom, for that Death
Lent a large portion of his majesty

Unto his victim; and besides he chose
To claim him with the all of his possessions,
His senses fully perfect. Thou hast seen
The summer sun, upon the dying day,
Ere she did quite expire, shed a broad
And glorious light! Hast thou not, Cecily?
Then sink at once into his wat'ry bed,
Nor grapple with the night-e'en so, my love,
Will it now be with me-I am the swan,
Singing mine own sad dirge-but do not weep
What is inevitable my poor girl,

I would not dwell on this, would other thoughts
But come upon my mind.

Cecily.
Dear Walter, I
Have tidings may dismiss thy painful thoughts--
Philip, my generous brother, is return'd

To greet his friend, and give his sister's hand
Unto her own heart's chosen-Pray thee now,
Look on him cheerfully-for see, he comes.

Enter Philip.

Philip. (to himself.) Can this be Walter !-this worn, wasted form

The gallant soldier, full of life and health,

From whom but one short year hath roll'd its course

Since last I parted-Friend, I come to deck

Thy bridal day with flowers, and thy brow

With young Hope's gayest garland.

Walter.

Is young no longer. She is aged now,

Hope with me

And all the flowers, that form'd her bright-hued crown,
Are dead, good Philip, dead !-No matter-thou

Mayest pluck them from this pale and death-bound brow,
To plant them on my grave!-Sweet Cecily,
The marriage garlands are prepared, they say.
Alive or dead, oh, let me wear them, dear!-
Place one upon my breast, and one upon
My low and humble tomb. Now lead me to
Yon grassy bank, on which the moonlight plays
As softly, and as pale, as though it knew
A dying man would render up his spirit
Upon that tranquil spot.-