Far from his kindred and his home:
So fatal the distress that fell

On all who loved their King too well.
But sleep comes grateful to the heart
Untouched by vice or treason's art;
And warrior's couch is easy spread
On plains or caverns lowly bed-
The softest down gives not such rest
To frames by luxury's thrall oppressed:
And often had the battle field

Been ARTHUR'S only bed-
His only pillow been his shield,
On which to lay his head!

But worse than toil, than scanty food,
To one with nervous strength endued-
No tidings could he hope to get
Of Her on whom his heart was set
With all the love pure, fond, and deep,
Which still his heart in thrall could keep.
How many fears his anxious breast
In mournful solitude possessed

For her-the only one from whom
Came rays of hope that cheered the gloom
And soothed the rigour of his doom.

Meantime young AGNES, (orphan now) With throbbing heart and gloomy brow, In lonely sorrow pined away,

And seemed to wither day by day:
Her lover lost-her father slain-
DE CLIFFORD's fair and wide domain'
Had now become a stranger's care-
Till EDWARD deemed a rightful heir
Might from his gay and gallant band
Claim CLIFFORD's tower, and AGNES hand;
For she was now a royal ward
Of him her inmost soul abhorred.

It needed not long time to find
Some warrior to his fate resigned—
To whom the King gave ample pow'r
To claim as lord, DE CLIFFORD's tower,
And share its lady's noble dower.
And FALCONBERG, a biron dread,

Of manners harsh, austere, and wild,
Was chosen from the train, to wed
Lord CLIFFORD's orphan child!

Oh with what grief her soul was stirred,
When first in that loved home she heard
The tidings that her hand was claimed
By one she hated to be named;
In whom no gentle soul was found-
For cruelty alone renowned;
Fierce in the battle's fiery shower,
But much unfit for maiden's bower-
Whose lawless passions uncontrolled
In stormy fits of anger rolled;

To whom the soft'ning course of age
Had not brought worth, or feelings sage;
For time upon his brow had press'd,
But had not still'd his savage breast:
Alas when grey hairs still can bring
The passions of our manhood's spring!
Alas how AGNES' spirit spurned

The thought-whene'er her mem'ry turn'd
To him, her cherish'd love, her first-
Ere sorrow's cloud had darkly burst,
And both their hearts were light as air,
Undimmed by gloom-untouched by care.
But FALCONBERG ! his conquest sure,
His love not warmer than 'twas pure,
Tarried at EDWARD's court awhile,
To bask in royal favour's smile;
And thus a short, yet sweet relief
Was given her in her lonely grief.
And hope surmounted dark despair,
And showed afar its prospects fair
But desperate appears even hope,
When thus it dares with fate to cope,
And mem❜ry then in sadness yearns
For pleasure that no more returns—
And she that builds amid such gloom
Will find the edifice a tomb;
And tho' perchance at first 'tis fair,
The ray of truth it cannot bear-
Its fabric clouds-its basis air:

And thus her spirit buoyant, bright,
From clouds around extracted light;
Alas, such flame can only blight—
And when 'tis passed, a darker night
Succeeds the vivid burning ray
That for a moment lit the way!

At last the warrior bridegroom came,
The maid's reluctant hand to claim.
He came not as a lover should,
With eager step, but voice subdued-
With eye that flashed with looks of love,
Yet 'haviour gentle as the dove-
With bosom beating with delight;
But with a brow as dark as night,
With upright gait, but visage dim-
As tho' the ample lands to him
Gave more of pleasure and of pride,
Than did his gentle timid bride.
And how did she the bridegroom meet-
Did smile of love his presence greet,
Or voice of gladness, still more sweet ?
With tones half breathed, yet softly clear,
As only meant for love's own ear?
With throbbing pulse and beating heart,
As if now met, they feared to part?
Alas! much dignity of mien,
But little love could there be seen;
Tho' calm and clear her gentle voice,
Its music made no heart rejoice;

Her visage showed nor smile nor frown-
In cold composure she looked down;
And if she spoke, each word she said
Seemed accents uttered by the dead-
As she returned, with manner cold,
The greeting of the Baron bold,
As he expressed, with accents brief,
His joy at being appointed chief
Of CLIFFORD's warlike hold;

And named his wish, that ere three days
Had seen the day-god's burnished rays,
The nuptial garland might be twined,
And AGNES to his pow'r resigned—
As war's loud ordnance might once more
Recall him to its sullen roar—
For rumour said that merry France

TO MARGARET's aid would now advance,

And once again the war renew,
And English plains with blood bedew!

Oh, he that calmly waits to feel
The storm its darkest gloom reveal,
While worn and weary, tempest toss'd,
His vessel reels, her rudder lost,
While rugged rocks that frown before
Await her drifting on the shore,
In foreign seas, on unknown foam,
In safety and in strength to roam,
And find destruction when at home-