Hark! the blast is a blast so strong and so shrill, That the vaults like thunder ring;

And each marble horse stamps the floor with force,
And from sleep the warriors spring!

And frightful stares each stony eye,
As now with ponderous tread
They rush on Sir Guy, poising on high
Their spears to strike him dead.

At this strange attack full swift sprang back,
I wot, the startled Knight!

Away he threw the horn, and drew

His faulchion keen and bright.

But soon as the horn his grasp forsook,
Was heard a cry of grief;

It seemed the yell of a soul in hell
Made desperate of relief!

And straight each light was extinguisht quite,
Save the flame so lurid-blue

On the Wizard's brow, (whose flashings now
Assumed a bloody hue),

And those sparks of fire, which grief and ire
From his glaring eye-balls drew!

And he stampt in rage, and he laught in scorn.
While in thundering tone he roared,

'Now shame on the coward who sounded a horn, When he might have unsheatht a sword!'

He said, and from his mouth there came
A vapour blue and dank,

Whose poisonous breath seemed the kiss of death,
For the Warrior senseless sank.

Morning breaks! again he wakes;
Lo! in the porch he lies,

And still in his heart he feels the dart

Which shot from the captive's eyes.

From the ground he springs! as if he had wings,
The ruin he wanders o'er,

And with prying look each cranny and nook
His anxious eyes explore:

But find can he ne'er the winding stair,

Which he climbed that Dame to see, Whom spells enthrall in the haunted hall,

The earliest ray of dawning day
Beholds his search begun :
The evening star ascends his car,
Nor yet his search is done :

Whence the neighbours all the Knight now call
By Guy, the Seeker's' name;
For never he knows one hour's repose

From his wish to find the Dame :

But still he seeks, and aye he seeks,
And seeks, and seeks in vain ;
And still he repeats to all he meets,
-'Could I find the sword again!'

Which words he follows with a groan,
As if his heart would break;
And oh! that groan has so strange a tone,
It makes all hearers quake!

The villagers round know well its sound,
And when they hear it poured,

-Hark! hark! they cry; the Seeker Guy
Groans for the Wizard's sword.'-

Twice twenty springs on their fragrant wings
For his wound have brought no balm;

For still he's found. . . . .But, hark! what sound
Disturbs the midnight calm?

Good peasants, tell, why rings that knell ?

Tis the Seeker-Guy's we toll;

His race is run; his search is done.'-
God's mercy on his soul!

[This very spirited and beautiful ballad, oras its author prefers to call it-legend,' is taken from Friendship's Offering,' for 1828, where, we believe, it originally appeared. We say 'believe,' because we are unable to affirm anything positively upon the subject. To whom we are indebted for this contribution to our balladlore; who were Sir Carodac and swarthy Britomart,' and who the 'White-Armed Ladye;' in what period of the world's history they played their parts; and what, if any, was the occasion of the lists being formed on Naseby Wold, are matters upon which the author has not thought proper to throw any more light than can be obtained from the ballad itself; to which, therefore, we must be content to refer the reader, as to the only source of information respecting them with which we are acquainted.]

INSTRELS are wending from lordly tower, Merry maidens from ladye's bower, Shaven priest, and bearded knight,

King Richard mounts his palfrey grey,
And England's best are in array;
For lordly blood and knighthood bold
Do mortal fight on Naseby Wold.

Wherefore is Carodac spear in rest?
Swarthy Britomart targe on breast?
Not for tilt, or tourney light,
But in deep defiance of deadly fight.

Horse to horse, and hand to hand,
God to speed, and his own red brand:-
Woe worth the day, woe worth the feud,
When the falcon stoops for the falcon's blood

"Twas whisperd, somewhat of deadly wrong,
Of treason foul, and slanderous tongue;-
Some talkt of woman's wandering eye,
Far on the shores of Paynimie.

A Palmer spoke of murder's stain,-
Swords red, but not on battle plain,
I reck not, 'tis as legends tell,—
None know how so dark a feud befell!

Certes! was seen a ladye there;-
(When was feud without ladye fair?)
Darkly bedight in foreign weed,
And proudly borne on an Eastern steed.

Maidens lip like hers ne'er smiled;
Maidens eye was ne'er so wild:-
Saint Mary! yonder lip and eye

Have more than earthly witchery!

Jesu! 'twas an awful day,

When spirits mingled with earthly clay:-
Eastern lore hath sung her birth,
She was no ladye of nether earth!

Strange legends of her youth were told,
That India's seas had o'er her rolld;
That her sire was ruler in Oceans caves,
O'er Genii of the pearly waves.

Her mother was queen of Fairy Lands,
Crystal isles, and golden sands;-
And she, the child of another sphere

Yes! Love, in pain, in peril proved;-
And who can doubt, that once has loved?
She has left her fathers caverns swart,
And crosst the wave with Sir Britomart.

Queen-like, around the lists she rides;
But her brow is dark as an Afric bride's;
For she has tried her magic power,-
But a mightier spell rules the battle-hour.

Hark! peals the heralds challenge loud,-
The warders are pricking through the crowd,-
The clarion sounds;-with a torrents force
Parts from his stance each barbed horse.

The spurs were red in the coursers side,
Ere the first note of battle died:
A second-and in mid career
Reels the steed, and cracks the spear!

Sir Britomarts horse was a noble one,
Matchless in blood and mighty in bone;
Araby's steeds, he had beaten them all,-
But he was not bred in earthly stall!

There are sprites of the air, and sprites of the sea,
Jesu shield us!-that such should be!-

Now, ladyes all, read me my rede,
Whence came he, that coal-black steed?

But Carodac bore him like stubborn rock:
And the Paynim barb reeld at the shock:
Heaven's own hand was in the deed,
Or he had not quaild to earthly steed.

The girths are snapt on his panting sides,

The hand has dropt from the rein that guides:
Yon ashen lance, so good and so true,

Has pierced Sir Britomart through and through!

The clarions rung, and ladyes wept,

And many a Leech has forward stept,

To staunch and to talk as Leech does now;

But the sweat of death is on his brow!

In shorter gasps his breath came and went,

Like the forest's groan when the storm is spent,— And ever, with a torrents flood,