Like channeled granite was his front,
His hair was crisp with rime,—
He asked admittance, as was wont
In that free-hearted time;

For who would leave to die i' the cold
A lonely man and awful-old.

At first his prayer had no reply,—
Perchance the wild wind checked it,
But when it rose into a cry,

No more the inmates recked it,
Till where the cheerful fire-light shone,
A voice out-thundered,-" Wretch ! begone."

"There is no path,-I have no strength,—

What can I do alone?

Grant shelter, or I lay my length,
And perish on the stone;

I crave not much,-I should be blest
In kennel or in barn to rest."

"What matters thy vile head to me?

Dare not to touch the door!"

"Alas! and shall I never see

Home, wife, and children more?"

"If thou art still importunate,

My serfs shall nail thee to the gate."

But, when the wrathful Seigneur faced

The object of his ire,

The beggar raised his brow debased
And armed his eyes with fire:
"Whatever guise is on me now,
I am a mightier Lord than thou!"

"Madman or cheat! announce thy birth."

"That thou wilt know to-morrow."

"Where are thy fiefs?"-"The whole wide Earth."

“And what thy title?"—" SORROW."

Then, opening wide his ragged vest,

He cried," Thou canst not shun thy guest."

He stamped his foot with fearful din,—

With imprecating hand

He struck the door, and past within
Right through the menial band:

"Follow him, seize him,-There-and there!"
They only saw the blank night air.

But He was at his work: ere day,
Began the work of doom,

The Lord's one daughter, that fair may,

Fled with a base-born groom,

Bearing about, where'er she came,
The blighting of an ancient name.

His single son,-that second self,
Who, when his first should fall,
Would hold his lands and hoarded pelf,
Died in a drunken brawl;—

And now alone amidst his gold

He stood, and felt his heart was cold.

Till, like a large and patient sea

Once roused by cruel weather,

Came by the raging Jacquerie,
And swept away together

Him and all his, save that which time

Has hoarded to suggest our rhyme.

THE BROWNIE.

A GENTLE household Spirit, unchallenged and unpaid,
Attended with his service a lonely servant-maid.

She seemed a weary woman, who had found life unkind,
Whose youth had left her early and little left behind.

Most desolate and dreary her days went on until
Arose this unseen stranger her labours to fulfil.

But now she walked at leisure, secure of blame she slept,
The meal was always ready, the room was always swept.

And, by the cheerful fire-light, the winter evenings long,
He gave her words of kindness and snatches of sweet song ;-

With useful housewife secrets and tales of faeries fair,
From times when gaunt magicians and dwarfs and giants were.--

Thus, habit closing round her, by slow degrees she nurst
A sense of trust and pleasure, where she had feared at first.

When strange desire came on her, and shook her like a storm, To see this faithful being distinct in outward form.

He was so pure a nature, of so benign a will,
It could be nothing fearful, it could be nothing ill.

At first with grave denial her prayer he laid aside,
Then warning and entreaty, but all in vain, he tried.

The wish upgrew to passion,-she urged him more and more,Until, as one outwearied, but still lamenting sore,

He promised in her chamber he would attend her call, When from the small high window the full-moon light should fall.

Most proud and glad that evening she entered to behold
How there her phantom Lover his presence would unfold ;

When lo! in bloody pallor lay, on the moonlit floor,
The Babe she bore and murdered some thirteen years before.,

BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN.

A BRETON BALLAD.

I.

"TWAS on the field of Navarrète,
When Trestamare had sought
From English arms a safe retreat,
Du Guesclin stood and fought:
And to the brave Black Prince alone

He yielded up his sword ;

So we must sing in mournful tone,

II.

The Black Prince is a gentle knight;
And bade Du Guesclin name

What ransom would be fit and right
For his renown and fame;

"A question hard," says he, "yet since Hard Fortune on me frowns,

I could not tell you less, good Prince,

Than twenty thousand crowns.

III.

“Where find you all that gold, Sir Knight?

I would not have you end

Your days in sloth and undelight

Away from home and friend:

"O Prince of gene'rous heart and just !

Let all your fears be stayed;

For' my twenty thousand crowns I trust
To every Breton maid."

IV.

And he is not deceived, for we
Will never let him pine

In stranger towers beyond the sea,

Like' a jewel in the mine!

No work but this shall be begun,-

We will not rest or dream,

Till twenty thousand crowns are spun

Du Guesclin to redeem.

V.

The Bride shall grudge the marriage morn, And feel her joy a crime;