Triumphant soon from Scotia he return'd,

And to behold his lov'd Constantia burn'd:
This wings his feet along the toilsome way-
But thoughts are swifter, swifter far than they;
Hope, elevate, the distant journey metes,
And to his march his heart the measure beats.
But when o'er Tweed he led his conqu'ring host,
And trode the verdure of Northumbria's coast,
While laurels round their trophy'd temples twin'd,
And banners wanton'd in the curling wind,
No wonted crowds their once-lov'd Alla meet,
No prostrate knees, or hailing voices greet:
Blank was his passage o'er the pensive ground,
And silence cast a mournful gloom around;
Or if his prince some straggling peasant spy'd,
As from a basilisk he slunk aside.

What this might mean, revolv'd within his breast,
Conjecture dire, and whisp'ring doubts suggest;
More dread than death, some hideous ill impart
This the first fear e'er seiz'd on Alla's heart.
But worse, O worse than fancy yet could fear,
When now the killing truth arrests his ear!
Athwart his eyes, and mantling round his soul,
Thick clouds of grief and dreary darkness roll;
His sense, nor tears, nor utt'ring groans could tell,
But froze and lock'd in speechless woe he fell.
At length by care, by cruel kindness, brought
To all the anguish of returning thought,
Swift from the sheath he drew the deadly guest,
And would have pierc'd this vulture in his breast;
Such was the sting of agonizing pain,

His frenzy would th' immortal soul have slain! But this prevented, round th' attending crew, With baleful glance, his eager eyes he threw: "Constantia !" he requires with frantic tongue, "Constantia !" still the restless accents sung: To her, as present, now his fondness speaks; As absent, into desp'rate action breaks. "O never, never more, my queen!" he cries, "Shall that known form attract these dying eyes! Never?-O, 't is the worst, the last despairNever is long, is wondrous long to bear! Down, down, ye cloud-topt hills, your summits in sign of endless mourning, droop! Snapt be the spear, bright armour ground to dust; Repose, thou corslet, in eternal rust;

With me,

[stoop;

And saide; ""
Lord, as ye commanded me,
Up peine of deth, so have I don certain."
This messager turmented was, til he
Moste beknowe, and tellen plat and plain,
Fro night to night in what place he had lain:
And thus by wit and subtil enquering
Imagined was by whom this harm gan spring.
The hand was knowen that the lettre wrote,
And all the venime of this cursed dede;
But in what wise, certainly I n'ot.
The effect is this, that Alla out of drede
His moder slew, that moun men plainly rede,
For that she traitour was to hire ligeance;
Thus endeth this old Donegild with meschance.
The sorwe that this Alla night and day
Maketh for his wif and for his child also,
Ther is no tonge that it tellen may.
But now wol I agen to Custance go,
That fleteth in the see in peine and wo
Five yere and more, as liked Cristes sonde,
Or that hire ship approched to the londe.

VOL. XVIL

Still'd be each tube, the trumpet's warlike swell-
Empire, and fame, all, all, with thee, farewell!
For thee alone, thy conqu'ring soldier arm'd,
The banner wav'd, and sprightly clangour charm'd:
But arms and loath'd desire with thee are dead;
And joy-no, never to return-is filed!"

Thus rav'd the youth, to wilful woes resign'd;
And offer'd aid was sickness to his mind,
To frenzy by uxorious transports rais'd,
His vengeance on his aged parent seiz'd;
Who, doom'd to lose that too designing head,
A victim to his lov'd Constantia bled.

But violence in nature cannot last:
What region's known to bear eternal blast?
Time changes all, dissolves the melting rock,
And on fix'd water turns the crystal lock.
Time o'er his anguish shed a silent balm,
A peace unsmiling, and a gloomy calm;
By ill untaught to mourn, by joy to glow,
And still insensible to bliss or woe.

Under an hethen castel at the last,

(Of which the name in my text I not find)
Custance and eke hire child the see up cast.
Almighty God, that saved all mankind,
Have on Custance and on hire child som mind,
That fallen is in hethen hond eftsone

In point to spill, as I shal tell you sone.

Doun fro the castel cometh ther many a wight
To gauren on this ship, and on Custance:
But shortly fro the castel on a night,
The lordes steward (God yeve him meschance)
A theef, that had reneyed our creance,
Came into the ship alone, and said he wolde
Hire lemman be, whether she wolde or n'olde.

Wo was this wretched woman tho begon,
Hire childe cried, and she cried pitously:
But blisful Mary halpe hire right anon,
For with hire strogling wel and mightily
The theef fell over bord al sodenly,
And in the see he drenched for vengeance,
And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance.

To him, thus careless of the circling year, Five annual suns had roll'd their bright career: To Heav'n alone, his earthly ardours turn'd; There, late to meet the dear Constantia, burn'd: Still that fond hope remain'd-his sole desire! And gave new wings to the celestial fire. "But yet-hereafter!-what might there betide The blood-stain'd hand, by whom a parent dy'd?" This, this gave doubtful thought, unhing'd his rest, And shook the region of his contrite breast; At length taught satiate vengeance to relent, And shipp'd for Rome, the royal pilgrim sent.

Forth goth hire ship thurghout the narwe mouth
Of Jubaltare and Septe, driving alway,
Somtime west, and somtime north and south,
And somtime est, ful many a wery day:
Til Cristes moder (blessed be she ay)
Hath shapen thurgh hire endeles goodnesse
To make an end of all hire hevinesse.

Now let us stint of Custance but a throw,
And speke we of the Romane emperour,
That out of Surrie bath by lettres knowe
The slaughter of Cristen folk, and dishonour
Don to his doughter by a false traitour,
I mene the cursed wicked Soudannesse,
That at the fest let sleen both more and lesse.

For which this emperour hath sent anon
His senatour, with real ordinance,
And other lordes, God wote, many on,
On Surriens to taken high vengeance:

They brennen, sleen, and bring hem to meschance
Ful many a day: but shortly this is th' ende,
Homward to Rome they shapen hem to wende.

This senatour repaireth with victorie
To Rome ward, sayling ful really.
And met the ship driving, as saith the storie,
In which Custance sitteth ful pitously:
Nothing ne knew he what she was, ne why
She was in swiche array, ne she wil sey
Of hire estat, though that she shulde dey.

He bringeth hire to Rome, and to his wif He yaf hire, and hire yonge sone also: And with the senatour she lad hire lif, Thus can our Lady bringen out of wo Woful Custance, and many another mo: And longe time dwelled she in that place, In holy werkes ever, as was hire grace.

The senatoures wif hire aunte was,

But for all that she knew hire never the more:
I wol no longer tarien in this cas,
But to king Alla, which I spake of yore,
That for his wif wepeth and siketh sore,
I wol returne, and let I wol Custance
Under the senatoures governance.

King Alla, which that had his moder slain,
Upon a day fell in swiche repentance,
That if I shortly tellen shal and plain,
To Rome he cometh to receive his penance,
And putte him in the popes ordinance,
In high and low, and Jesu Crist besought,
Foryeve his wicked werks that he had wrought.

O'er Tiber soon the far-fraught tidings sped, (For far beyond the warrior's fame had spread) And Gallia's Hugo, to whose gen'rous care Protecting Heav'n consign'd the wand'ring fair, With those whom virtuous approbation fir'd, (As still the brave are by the brave admir'd) To see, to touch the gallant Alla glow'd, And rank'd to meet the regal pilgrim rode. With all due rite and answ'ring grace humane, The courteous prince receiv'd the shining train: But Hugo chief, with port of winning view, The hero's eye and prime affection drew; And him, with note selected from the rest, The prince solicits for a frequent guest.

But ah! when now it reach'd Constantia's ear, That Alla, lovely, barb'rous man, was near, Her soul a thousand diff'rent thoughts assail; Expell'd by turns, by turns they all prevail : With melting joy and burning love she glows, With cooling grief and icy hate she froze; Dear to her heart, though horrid to her will, He was the lov'd, the charming Alla still.

Nor Hugo now, in pompous dress array'd, To wait Britannia's potent lord delay'd. With him Mauritius frequent chat supply'd, A little gay companion at his sideHe beams a Ganymede, in whose sweet face The sire and mother liv'd with mingling grace: Here still they met, in beauty reconcil'd; Here still, in soft delicious union, smil'd; So join'd, so blended, with divinest art, As left it not in any power to part!

Upon the prattler's aspect, with surprise, And charm'd attention, Alla fix'd his eyes: Somewhat of wonted semblance there he spy'd, Dear to his sense, and to his heart ally'd;

The fame anon thurghout the toun is born,
How Alla king shal come on pilgrimage,
By herbergeours that wenten him beforn,
For which the senatour, as was usage,
Rode him againe, and many of his linage,
As wel to shewen his high magnificence,
As to don any king a reverence.

Gret chere doth this noble senatour
To king Alla, and he to him also;
Everich of hem doth other gret honour;
And so befell, that in a day or two
This senatour is to king Alla go
To fest, and shortly, if I shal not lie,
Custances sone went in his compagnie.

Som men wold sain at requeste of Custance
This senatour hath lad this child to feste:
I may not tellen every circumstance,
Be as be may, ther was he at the leste:
But soth is this, that at his mothers heste
Beforn Alla, during the metes space,
The child stood, loking in the kinges face.

This Alla king hath of this child gret wonder,
And to the senatour he said anon,
"Whos is that faire child that stondeth yonder ?"
"I n'ot," quod he, "by God, and by Seint John;
A moder he hath, but fader hath he non,
That I of wote: but shortly in a stound
He told Alla how that this child was found.

Somewhat that touch'd beyond all mortal view,
And inly with the link of nature drew.
Disturb'd he rose; upon his secret soul,
Unweeting thaw, and cordial earnings stole:
Big with the soft distress, aside he stepp'd,
And much the warrior wonder'd why he wept.
Compos'd, he clasp'd the infant to his breast,
And ask'd, what sire with such a son was bless'd ?
"That," Hugo cried, "his dame alone must show;
Sire hath he none, or none of whom we know:
But mother, sure, he hath, that's such a mate
No man can boast, nor boastful tongue relate:
Though fancy, to give semblance of her face,
From all her sex should cull each sep'rate grace,
To speak her soul should rob from ev'ry saint;
Low yet were phrase, and all description faint!"
Thus, while his tongue with free encomium flow'd,
With strange emotion Alla's aspect glow'd:
Full on his heart the dear idea rush'd;
His cheek with hope and lively ardour flush'd;
When straight despondence sick'ning in his soul,
From its known seat the rosy tincture stole :
"Once, once," he cry'd, (the lab'ring sigh sup-
press'd)

"Such treasure once these widow'd arms possess'd!
Nature is rich-yet gladly should I know,
If the world's round can such another show."
"Be that," reply'd the Gallic chief, "confess'd,
Whene'er my house boasts Alla for a guest."

They went. But when the long-dissever'd pair, Her Alla here, and his Constantia thereBy doubts, loves, fears, and rushing joys dismay'd, Unmov'd, each face with mutual gaze survey'd— Such was the scene, th' impassion'd gesture such, As phrase can't reach, nor liveliest pencil touch! Three times the fair-one sought the shades of death, Three times reviv'd by Alla's balmy breath;

"But God wot," quod this senatour also,
"So vertuous a liver in all my lif
Ne saw I never, as she, ne herd of mo
Of worldly woman, maiden, widewe, or wif:
I dare wel sayn hire hadde lever a knif
Thurghout hire brest, than ben a woman wikke,
Ther is no man coude bring hire to that prikke."

Now was this child as like unto Custance
As possible is a creature to be;
This Alla bath the face in remembrance
Of dame Custance, and theron mused he,
If that the childes moder were aught she
That is his wif, and prively he sighte,
And sped him fro the table that he mighte.

"Parfay," thought he, "fantome is in min hed. I ought to deme of skilful jugement, That in the salte see my wif is ded." And afterward he made his argument; "What wot I, if that Crist have hider sent My wif by see, as wel as he hire lent

To my contree, fro thennes that she went ?"

And after noon home with the senatour
Goth Alla, for to see this wonder chance.
This senatour doth Alla gret honour,
And hastily he sent after Custance:
But trusteth wel, hire luste not to dance.
Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde,
Unnethe upon hire feet she mighte stonde.

And thrice his guiltless plea he would essay,
And thrice she turn'd, Constantia turn'd away.
"Now, by this hand," Britannia's hero cry'd,
"This hand, by whom a cruel parent dy'd,
Long since for thee, for thee thou dear one, bled,
A victim sacred to that injur'd head—
Of all thy wrongs thy Alla is as clear,
As here my son, thy other Alla here!
Ah! could you know the anguish, the distress-
But who can know what words can ne'er express?—
What racks, what deaths, thy tort'ring absence cost;
What restless toil this suff'ring bosom tost-
"T was such a ruin, such a breach of care,
As this and only this could e'er repair!"

So saying, swift resistless to his breast,
The yielding fair repeated transport press'd.
But when all doubt and cold suspicion clear'd,
Her lord still faithful as belov'd appear'd;
By her so oft, so cruelly accus'd,

Still kind and true, and as herself abus'd;
She in his bosom, all with joy o'erpower'd,
Of sobs and tears the copious tempest shower'd-
All eyes around the melting measure kept,
And pleasure through contagious transport wept:
For Heav'n, alone, can emulate the sweet
Of one hour's bliss, when two such lovers meet.
Still had Constantia, lock'd within her breast,
The royal secret of her birth suppress'd,

Whan Alla saw his wif, faire he hire grette,
And wept, that it was routhe for to see,
For at the firste look he on hire sette
He knew wel veraily that it was she:
And she for sorwe, as domb stant as a tree:
So was hire herte shette in hire distresse,
Whan she remembered his unkindnesse.

Twies she swouneth in his owen sight,
He wepeth and him excuseth pitously:
"Now God," quod he, "and all his halwes bright
So wisly on my soule as have mercy,
That of your harme as gilteles am I,
As is Maurice my sone, so like your face,
Elles the fend me fetche out of this place."

Long was the sobbing and the bitter peine,
Or that hir woful hertes mighten cese,
Gret was the pitee for to here hem pleine,
Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encrese.
I pray you all my labour to relese,
I may not tell hir wo until to morwe,
I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.

But finally, whan that the soth is wist,
That Alla gilteles was of hire wo,

I trow an hundred times han they kist,
And swiche a blisse is ther betwix hem two,
That save the joye that lasteth evermo,
Ther is non like, that any creature

Hath seen or shal, while that the world may dure.

When Rome's imperial monarch wide invites
To social cheer and festival delights:
For now triumphant from the Syrian coast,
Though long detain'd, return'd his vengeful host;
And to reward their toils and drown their cares,
The monarch on a solemn day prepares.
With festal robes adorn'd each warrior came;
In glitt'ring vesture many a Roman dame:
And there, amid the peers, a peerless guest,
There Alla came in regal splendours dress'd,
All India beaming at the hero's side;
O'er beaming India shone his brighter bride;
While the young joy of each applauding tongue,
Mauritius on his stailing parents hung,
As though a stripling cherub should attend,
Where two of prime angelic rank descend.
Struck at the pleasing prospect all admire,
But mute with wonder stood th' imperial sire;
For haply, since our primal parents fell,
Ne'er met a pair that could this pair excel.

He at his left Britannia's monarch plac'd,
And his right hand th' unknown Constantia grac'd;
When with a starting tear the rev'rend man,
To Alla turn'd, in placid speech began:
"Young though thou art, with earliest vigour strung,
And the fond theme of fame's applauding tongue,
"T is said thou hast the stings of fortune felt;
And such can learn from others' woes to melt.
I had a daughter - once my only care!
As virtuous as thy consort, and as fair:
But her (sad cause of folly to repent)
To Syria with a num`rous train I sent;
And there the toil, the treach'rous toil was spread,
And there Constantia, there, my child, you bled!
Around the maid her brave attendants fell,
Nor one was left the fatal tale to tell:
Hence age through grief has doubly known decay,
And care untimely turn'd my locks to grey.
This day selected from the circling year,
To her I consecrate the annual tear;
And these the chiefs, who, in her quarrel crown'd,
Have late in vengeance bath'd the hostile ground.
But vain is vengeance where all hope is fled;
Nor hosts of victims can revive the dead!

Som men wold sayn, how that the child Maurice
Doth this message until this emperour;
But as I gesse, Alla was no so nice,
To him that is so soveraine of honour,
As he that is of Cristen folk the flour,
Send any child, but it is bet to deme

He went himself, and so it may well seme.

This emperour hath granted gentilly
To come to dinner, as he him besoughte;
And wel rede I, he loked besily
Upon this child, and on his doughter thought.
Alla goth to his inne, and as him ought
Arraied for this feste in every wise,
As ferforth as his conning may suffice.

My child! thou 'st robb'd my life of all delightBut death shall soon our happier souls unite!"

Nor yet he ended,—when, with troubled mien, Quick at his knees low bow'd Britannia's queen: "Not so, not so, my father!" loud she cry d— "See here thy child, thy daughter at thy side! Why look you thus with wild and piercing eye? Your daughter here, your daughter you descry! Constantia, who through many a death survives, And yet to see her king and sire, arrives." "Yes, yes, you are my child,—these accents tell!”— He could no more, but on her neck he fell. Down her soft cheek his mingling tears o'erflow; Joy, joy too great, assum'd the form of woe! The roof, surprise and echoing transport tore; And eyes then wept, that never wept before.

Wing'd as an arrow from some vig'rous arm, Through Rome's wide city flew the glad alarm— "Constantia's here,-she lives!--she lives!"-they cry'd;

"Constantia, now the British hero's bride !"
Around the palace pour'd in wild delight,
On thousands gath'ring thousands straight unite:
With ceaseless clamours and extended hands,
Constantia's presence ev'ry voice demands;
Constantia, Alla, and their lovely boy

They claim, the blooming pledge of future joy!
Forth straight they come conspicuous to the view,
And greet with graceful mien th' applauding crew:
In shouts to Heav'n their exultations fly,
And universal joy torments the sky.

"I am your doughter, your Custance." quod she,
"That whilom ye han sent into Surrie :
It am I, fader, that in the salte see
Was put alone, and dampned for to die.
Now, goode fader, I you mercy crie,
Send me no more into non hethenesse,
But thanketh my lord here of his kindenesse."
Who can the pitous joye tellen all
Betwix hem thre, sin they ben thus ymette?
But of my tale make an ende I shal,
The day goth fast, I wol no longer lette.
Thise glade folk to dinner ben ysette,
In joy and blisse at mete I let hem dwell,
A thousand fold wel more than I can tell.
This child Maurice was sithen emperour,
Made by the pope, and lived cristenly,
To Cristes chirche did he gret honour:
But I let all his storie passen by,
Of Custance is my tale specially,
In the olde Romane gestes men may find
Maurices lif, I bere it not in mind.

This king Alla, whan he his time sey,
With his Custance, his holy wif so swete,
To Englond ben they come the righte wey,
Ther as they live in joye and in quiete.
But litel while it lasteth I you hete,
Joye of this world for time wold not abide,
Fro day to night it changeth as the tide.
Who lived ever in swiche delite o day,
That him ne meved other conscience,
Or ire, or talent, or som kin affray,
Envie, or pride, or passion, or offence?
I ne say but for this end this sentence,
That litel while in joye or in plesance
Lasteth the bliss of Alla with Custance.

FABLES.

THE TEMPLE OF HYMEN.

As on my conch supine I lay,
Like others, dreaming life away;
Methought, expanded to my sight,
A temple rear'd its stately height.
All ready built, without omitting
One ornament, for temples fitting.

Large look'd the pile, sublime and fair; But "Who the godhead worship'd there?" This to inquire, appearing meet, Imagination lent me feet,

And thither, without further cavil,
I fairly undertook to travel.

At once, in bright procession spied,
The female world was at my side,
Mingled, like many-colour'd patterns,

Nymphs, mesdames, trollops, belles, and slatterns,
From point, and saucy ermine, down
To the plain coif, and russet gown;
All, by inquiry as I found,

On one important errand bound.

Their van, to either tropic spread,
Forerunning Expectation led;
Pleasure the female-standard bore,
And Youth danc'd lightly on before;

While Prudence, Judgment, Sense, and Taste,
The few directing virtues, plac'd
To form and guide a woman's mind,
Discarded, sigh'd and slunk behind.

At length, in jubilee, arriving,
Where dwelt the jolly god of wiveing,
All press'd promiscuously to enter,
Nor once reflected on the venture.
But here, the Muse, affecting state,
Beckon'd her clamorous sex to wait,
Lest such a rendezvous should hinder
To say what pass'd, the while, within door.
Against the portal, full in sight,
His sable vesture starr'd like night,

For deth, that taketh of hie and low his rente,
Whan passed was a year, even as I gesse,
Out of this world this king Alla he hente,
For whom Custance hath ful gret hevinesse.
Now let us praien God his soule blesse:
And dame Custance finally to say,
Toward the toun of Rome goth hire way.

To Rome is come this holy creature,

And findeth ther hire frendes hole and sound:
Now is she scaped all hire aventure:
And whan that she hire fader hath yfound,
Doun on hire knees falieth she to ground,
Weping for tendernesse in herte blithe

She herieth God an hundred thousand sithe.

In vertue and in holy almesse dede
They liven alle, and never asonder wende;
Till deth departeth hem, this lif they lede:
And fareth now wel, my tale is at an ende.
Now Jesu Crist, that of his might may sende
Joye after wo, governe us in his grace,}
And kepe us all that ben in this place.

High thron'd upon an ebon seat,
Beneath a canopy of state,
That o'er his dusky temples nodded,
Was fix'd the matrimonial godhead.

Low at his feet, in pomp display'd,
The world's collected wealth was laid;
Where bags of mainmon, pil'd around,
And chests on chests, o'erwhelm'd the ground,
With bills, bonds, parchments, the appointers
Of doweries, settlements, and jointures;
From whence, in just proportion weigh'd,
And down, by special tail, convey'd,
The future progenies inherit
Taste, beauty, virtue, sense, and merit.
Whatever titles here may suit us

For this same god, Hymen, or Plutus,
Who, from his trade of a gold-finder,
Might now become a marriage-binder,
And, haply, use that precious metal
To solder sexes, like a kettle;
No earthly god, in my opinion,
Claim'd such an absolute dominion.

To prove his right to adoration
Through ev'ry age, and ev'ry nation,
Around the spacious dome, display'd
By many a fabled light and shade,
Was emblematically told
The great omnipotence of gold.

And first, in yonder panel seen,
A lad, call'd Paris, stroll'd the green,
Poor, hungry, witless, and dejected,
By country, and by kin, neglected;
Till Fortune, as she cross d the plain,
Conceiv'd a crotchet in her brain,
And, laughing at the bashful blockhead,
Took a huge pippin from her pocket,
Of the true glittering tempting kind,
And gold throughout from core to rind;
This, in a whim, the dame bestow'd,
Then, smiling, turn'd, and went her road.

The neighbours, now, when Fame had shown them
The youth bad got the summum bonum,
From many a hut and hamlet crowd,
And, duly, at his levee bow'd.
His reputation spreads apace-
O, such a shape, and such a face!
His mouth he opens, and they swear
The Delphic oracle is there.

Now, see the king of Troy aspire
To be the wealthy shepherd's sire.
For him, the brightest nymphs contended;
To him, three goddesses descended,
And show'd, in fair and open day,
Where honour, wit, and beauty lay,
O'er which, our poem, to conceal
From vulgar optics, drops a veil.

In the next panel, you discover
Olympic Jove, that thundering lover,
Who, charm'd with old Acrisius' daughter,
In many a shape had vainly sought her,
And run the round of all his tricks,
Yet still was doubtful where to fix;
Till, by some wiser head inclin'd,
To cast his blustring bolt behind,
His duller light'ning to withhold,
And wear the brighter form of gold,
He took the hint, he storm'd the tow'r,
And drop'd in yon omnific show'r.

In the next board, the tale so common is, 'Twixt Atalanta and Hippomenes,