"Kings seem to grant what God denies,— Trust my prophetic breath, (So the indignant dame replies), That Horse shall prove thy Death!” She spoke, and with a voice so keen, Half credulous, half wildly brave, A doubt, by superstition nursed, “Thy prophecies I thus destroy, (He cried), thou wretched crone; Threats on my days no more employ, But tremble for thy own." Striding away, his steed he left In his pure blood to roll: He quickly, of all aid bereft, Breathed out his nobler soul. The boastful knight, now gay with pride, By his successful crimes, Ungrateful both to man and beast, And lent, ere Harold's empire ceased, 379 The Norman tyrant much caressed This proud and abject slave; Now years, since that eventful hour Had poured increase of wealth and power As near, with much enlarged estate, To his domain he drew, He chanced before his castle gate, A signal scene to view. The scene his war-steeled nerves could shock ;· Seated on mossy stones, The Widow, leaning 'gainst a rock, Wept o'er his Horse's bones! Enraged, from his new steed he vaults, These bones, that bid his bloody faults The head, now bleached, his proud foot strikes "T is now his turn to bleed. The trivial wound, the wrathful knight Disdains to search with care, But soon he finds, the wound though slight, Now to his bed of sorrow bound, By penitential pain, He seems, by his heart-reaching wound, A purer mind to gain. Near to his couch he bids, with care, "True prophetess! I feel thee now; "Behold upon this chartered scroll, "The only rent I would assume, "That tomb be raised by sculpture's aid, To warn men from my guilt; My horse's head beside me laid, Whose blood I basely spilt!" He spoke, he died. The tomb was made ; His statue looked to Heaven: And daily then the widow prayed, His crimes might be forgiven! THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL.* Ir is currently believed in Scotland, and on the Borders, that he who has courage to rush upon a Fairy festival, and snatch away the drinking-cup, shall find it prove to him a cornucopia of good fortune, if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. A goblet is still carefully preserved in Eden-hall, Cumberland, which is supposed to have been seized, at such a banquet, by one of the ancient family of Musgrave. The Fairy train vanished, crying aloud— "If that glass either break or fall, Farewell the luck of Eden-hall!" From this prophecy, the goblet took the name it bears,―The Luck of Eden-hall.-Scott's Border Minstrelsy.-W. ON Eden's wild romantic bowers, The summer moonbeams sweetly fall, And tunes her idle lute by fits. * For this pleasing ballad, the Editor is indebted to the obliging offer of its author, Mr. J. H. WIFFEN, the translator of Tasso, and Garcilasso de la Vega. But little can her idle lute Beguile the weary moments now; And little seems the lay to suit Her wistful eye and anxious brow. For, as the chord her finger sweeps, Oft-times she checks her simple song, To chide the froward chance that keeps Lord Musgrave from her arms so long. And listens, as the wind sweeps by, His steed's familiar step to hear— In, lady, to thy bower; fast weep The noon was sultry, long the chase- The purple lights of dying day. Through many a dale must Musgrave hie- Ere he behold, with gladsome eye, But twilight deepens-o'er the wolds No ready vassal rides in sight; He blows his bugle, but the call Roused Echo mocks: farewell to night The home-felt joys of Eden-hall! |