Fit emblem were of that lorn maid,
When first in blooming youth arrayed,
With hopes and feelings undecayed,
She listened in her bower's shade
To love's first vows-and fondly thought
Such hours with gladness deeply fraught
Too brilliant to be e'er o'ercast-
Alas! they were too bright to last.
And now with soul by care oppress'd,
No joy by day-by night no rest-
The heart that should with joy have thrilld,
By blighted hopes and sorrow chilled,
Seemed careless of its coming fate,
Content the nuptial day to wait—
So wan her cheek, so lost her bloom,
She seemed predestined for the tomb.
Meantime Queen MARGARET once again
Essayed on England's throne to reign,
And landed from the Gallic shore,
Again the royal banner bore;
But hearing that on Barnet field
Her army had been forced to yield,

The Star of WARWICK quenched in blood,
Her forces slain by field and flood-
With withered hopes and drooping heart,
Resolved from England to depart;
The safety to her grandeur due
She sought in th' Abbey of Beaulieu;
And tho' a mighty Queen uncrowned,

Respect and glad protection found.
But COURTENAY, with the Lord ST. JOHN,
And PEMBROKE's prudent Earl,

A small but trusty band led on

And tho' hope's farewell ray had shone,
Its last faint glimmer lost and gone,
They bade the flag unfurl-
Resolved to die a warlike death,

And yield to Heaven their latest breath,
As warriors should on battle field,
Mid cannons roar and clash of shield!
And COURTENAY to the Abbey came,
Beseeching MARGARET for the fame
Of HENRY's royal race,

To try once more the battle's chance-
To bid her flag its folds advance,

And triumph with the sword and lance,
Or die without disgrace.

AS COURTENAY spoke with all the zeal
Which fiery manhood loves to feel
When the young heart is nerved to bear
The lonely feeling of despair-
With stately brow and sparkling eye,
And soul that spoke her purpose high,
Queen MARGARET said, "Not mine the part
To quench the ardour of thy heart-
Tho' few the troops that follow thee,
Their souls are strong in loyalty-

And desperate will be the strife
For fame, for conquest, and for life:
And oh, 'tis better far to die

On battle field, the foe defying-
On English soil to breathe the sigh,
The latest that we give in dying:
Far better than for years to roam
Far from our country and our home-

That land with which our hearts are link'd
By feelings ne'er to be extinct.”

They marched in valour undismay'd,
With glitt'ring shield, and helms arrayed,
Thro' counties where glim war had borne
His banner drenched with blood, and toru,
Beneath whose desolating sway`

All bore the trace of swift decay;
The flowers trampled under foot,
The orchard stripped of trees and fruit-
The flowing brook, its crystal flood
So deeply dyed with human blood-
The rugged path, the trodden plain,
The uncovered heaps of ghastly slain!
The peaceful church, the peasant's cot,
Alike had shared the bitter lot-
And all a dreadful stillness wore;
The vale as silent as the moor,
Save when perchance the widows' cry
Arose in bitter anguish high;

And warrior's heart might droop to hear
That moan come sadly on his ear.

As on they marched with added force-
(For numbers joined them in their course.)
The royal troops that seemed at first
But strong enough to fear the worst,
So numerous were, that hopes were nurst
To shake bold EDWARD from the throne,
And give the placid King his own.
At last, at evening's balmy hour,
They came to CLIFFORD'S ancient tower:
And ARTHUR looked with anxious eye
Upon its frowning turrets high--
With beating heart and ardent gaze,
His eye beheld not the faint rays
That glimmered from the tapers' light,
Which, placed in AGNES' room by night,
Gave token that her silent bower

Awaited him at that lov'd hour-
But torches from each turret gleamed,
And light like day's in glory beamed-
And music swelled upon the breeze,
And lamps gave light among the trees,
And figures glanced with joy along,
And then arose the voice of song—
And merriment and jocund shout,
On ARTHUR's mind left little doubt

That this lov'd scene, to him endeared,
With gladness once again was cheered.
But wherefore is this joy to-night?
Is this a time for loud delight?
The CLIFFORD's star by darkness veiled,
The Baron by his friends bewailed,
His banner drooping, rent and torn-
'Twere surely fitter time to mourn.
A host of feelings uncontrolled,
In ARTHUR'S breast with wildness roll'd;
A small but chosen band he took,
Resolved no more delay to brook,
And led them on with heart intent
To know why rings this merriment.
With stealthy footsteps, scarcely heard,
Save when the rustling leaves they stirred,
He led them on with that quick heart
A sense of peril can impart.
At last beneath the castle wall,

In ambush still he bade them lie,
Till they should hear his trumpet call;
Then took a cloak, resolved to try
If in disguise he could succeed

In finding wherefore shone to night
Those lamps that glittered far and bright;
In this of caution he had need,

As many of DE CLIFFORD'S band