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And still, when that guilty night returns,
On the eve of St. Barnaby bright,
The dying taper faintly burns-
With a wan and a wavering light.

And the clammy midnight dew breaks forth
Like drops of agony,

From the marble dank, and the armories clank,
Affrights the priest on his knee.

And high over head, with shivering tread,

Unearthly footsteps pass;

For the spirits of air, are gathering there,

And mock the holy mass.

Lordlings, mind how your vows you keep,

And kiss no leman gay;

For he that sinks in sin to sleep,

May never wake to pray.

Judge not sinner as thou art,

Commune with thy sinful heart

And watch, for thou knowest not the hour;
And to Jesus bright, and Mary of might,
Pray for the sowle of the murder'd Knight,
That died in the moonlight bower.

Sharp's Bishoprick Garland.

RIDE THROUGH SANDGATE.

Ride through Sandgate, both up and down,

There you'll see the gallants fighting for the crown:
All the cull cuckold's in Sunderland town,

With all the bonnie blue caps, cannot pull them down.

This is a genuine fragment of a ballad relating to Newcastle, besieged by Lesley and the Scots army. The blue caps (or Scotchmen) did, however, at last succeed in pulling them down, after a most gallant defence, 19th October, 1644.

Ibid.

Edward the First

AT NEWCASTLE, A.D. 1296.

A FRAGMENT.

Meantime within Newcastle walls,
Crowding her squares, her streets and halls,
Ready to march to hill or glen,

Full more than thirty thousand men,
All armed and wearing mail and plate,
The orders of their king await.
Himself, within his massive hold,
Surrounded by his barons bold,
Discoursed of Baliol's perfidy,
And how due chastisement should be
Dealt upon those who dared disown
His right to Scotland's ancient crown.
Tall he appeared, his frame was spare,
Swarthy his hue, and dark his hair;
Firm was his look, his deep black eyes,
As thoughts of war or high emprise
To rouse his spirit might conspire,
Flamed in his head like coals of fire.
So plain his garb that those who gazed
Upon their monarch were amazed,
He should appear, arrayed so mean,
In midst of such a martial scene;

For arms and pennons waving far
On every side, showed pomp of war,
And thronged around him, bold and free,

The pride of England's chivalry,

Whilst her broad standard to the sky

Streamed on the castle turrets high.

R. W.

THE CAPTIVE PRELATE.

[graphic]

HE death of Richard Kellow, bishop of Durham, in A. D. 1316, opened a wide field for ecclesiastical intrigue; and four competitors for the vacant see appeared, supported by powerful interests. The earl of Lancaster recommended his chaplain, John de Kinardslee; the earl of Hereford brought forward John Walwayne, a civilian; and the king (Edward II.) recommended Thomas Charleton, also a civilian, and keeper of the Signet. The queen, meanwhile, supported the interest of her kinsman, Lewis Beaumont, a descendant of the royal blood of France. The election was fixed for the feast of St. Leonard. The earls of Lancaster, Hereford, and Pembroke, waited within the church the event of the conclave; Henry Beaumont, a brave and successful soldier, well known on the borders, was also there to support the interests of his brother; and some of the savage nobility threatened, with characteristic violence, "if a monk were elected, to split his shaven crown." Surrounded by violence and intrigue, the electors preserved their purity and firmness, and announced to the impatient and irritated nobles, that their unanimous choice had fallen on the venerable prior of Finchale, Henry de Stamford, a man recommended only by the mild dignity of age and of virtue.

The king, who was at York, would have readily admitted the bishop elect who had been honourably chosen; but the tears and prayers of a beautiful and kneeling queen, who begged the promotion of her kinsman as the only favour she had ever solicited, were irresistable; and the king, refusing to ratify the election of Stamford, wrote to the Papal court, to demand the bishopric for Beaumont. Despairing of justice at home, Stamford, with three companions, undertook a painful journey across the Apennines; but the royal letters far outstripped the tedious footsteps of age and infirmity, and Stamford, on his arrival at Rome, found that pope John XXII. had already, at the joint request of the sovereigns of France and England, irrevocably bestowed the see of Durham on his opponent.

Lewis Beaumont had been consecrated at Westminster on the 26th of March 1318, and purposing to be installed at Durham on the high festival of St. Cuthbert, in September the same year, began his progress for the North, attended by a numerous and splendid retinue, accompanied by his brother Henry Beaumont, and by two Roman Cardinals, who were charged with a pacific embassy into Scotland. At Darlington the bishop was met by a messenger from the convent to warn him that the road was in possession of marauders; but the high

rank and sacred dignity of Lewis and his companions seemed to place danger at defiance, and the friendly notice was treated with neglect or suspicion. A few hours verified the prediction. At the Rushy Ford, midway betwixt the small villages of Woodham and Ferryhill, the road crosses a small and sullen rivulet in a low and sequestered spot, well calculated for surprise and prevention of escape. Here a desperate band anxiously waited the arrival of their prey, and the bishop and his companions had no sooner reached the ford than they were enveloped in a cloud of light horsemen, under the command of Gilbert Middleton, a Northumbrian gentleman, whom the necessities of the times had driven to adopt the lawless life of a freebooter, and who on this occasion is said to have added motives of private resentment to the desire of plunder. After rifling the whole party, Middleton restored the cardinals' horses, and suffered them to proceed on their journey to Durham, where their influence was successfully used in exciting the liberality of the monastics towards their captive prelate. The bishop meanwhile, and his brother Henry Beaumont, were carried off with the rapidity of a border raid across a tract of sixty miles, through the heart of the bishopric and Northumberland, to the castle of Mitford, of which says Graystanes, Middleton was the keeper, not the proprietor. The treasures of the church were cheerfully lavished for Lewis's redemption, and after giving security for the payment of a heavy ransom to the successful freebooter, both the captives were liberated.

The king, had it seems, used Middleton's relative, Adam Swinburn, harshly in some business of the marches; and the former, in vindication of the family honour, adopted the pious resolution of robbing the bishop of Durham. The times were lawless; the government weak; and the gentry of the north were frequently obliged to take upon themselves the defence of their own property; and with all its hazards and inconveniences, the life of a freebooter had some romantic and some substantial attractions, which seem to have rendered it very difficult for a borderer who had once adopted it, to retrace his steps towards the path of allegiance and legitimate subjection. Under the first Edward the gentlemen of the English march were faithful subjects; under his feeble successor they were frequently, from necessity rather than choice, freebooters and outlaws. Middleton's good fortune soon after deserted him; he was surprised in his stronghold of Mitford by some neighbouring chief, who had suffered from his depredations, betrayed into the hands of government, and executed at London. His followers, neither reclaimed nor dismayed by the fate of their leader, fled to range themselves under the banners of Walter Selby, one of Middleton's associates, who then held the little fortress of Horton.-Surtees.

THE FAIR FLOWER OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

[graphic]

T was a Knight in Scotland born,

Follow my love, come over the strand---
Was taken prisoner and left forlorn,

Even by the good Earl of Northumberland!

Then was he cast in prison strong,

Follow my love, &c.

Where he could not walk, nor lay along;

Even by the good Earl of Northumberland!

And, as in sorrow thus he lay,

Follow my love, &c,

The Earl's sweet daughter walks that way,

And she is the Fair Flower of Northumberland.

And passing by, like an angel bright,

Follow my love, &c.

The prisoner had of her a sight;

And she, &c.

And aloud to her this Knight did cry,

'Follow, my love! come over the strand,'

The salt tears standing in his eye,

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And she the Fair Flower of Northumberland!

Fair Lady,' he said, 'take pity on me,
Follow my love, and come over the strand,

And let me not in prison die,

And you the Fair Flower of Northumberland!"

Fair Sir, how should I take pity on thee,

Follow my love, &c.

Thou being a foe to our country,

And I the Fair Flower of Northumberland?'

'Fair Lady! I am no foe,' he said,

Follow my love, come over the strand ?

Through thy sweet love here was I stay'd,
For thee Fair Flower of Northumberland!

'Why shouldst thou come here for love of me,
Follow my love, &c.

Having wife and children in thy country,

And I the Fair Flower of Northumberland?

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