A ROMAUNT OF NORMANDY.

THE "Long" had passed, with all its toils and joys
Commingled sweetly, and with buoyant hearts
We left old England's shores, awhile to roam
From town to town, where storied fame delights
Still to rehearse the valorous deeds of those
Whose fiery spirit, wedded to the stern
Hard Saxon nature, pours through English veins
The floods that stir to deeds of high emprise.
My friend and I; he passing skilled to wield
The mystic symbols of Urania's art,
Versed in the wildering laws of x and y;
I loving more the strains of olden days,
The woodland pipings of Theocritus,
Pindar's tempestuous might, or regal grace
Of Sophocles, or Plato's visions fair.

Not such our present care; our sole essay
Was but to chase the hours with joy and mirth,
To dream beneath the sylvan shade at noon,
Or flash forth echoing thoughts beneath the stars.
And so it fell, that once in dewy prime
Leaving the woods of Mortain, where the hills
On either side stand clad in tall abeles
Beeches and chestnuts; and the cascades fall
Hurriedly tumbling downwards to the plain,

Far spread with plenteous crops; we came at noon
Unto the clear cold springs of Sourdeval;
And with the sinking sun we saw afar,

Set on the swelling bosom of a hill

That faced the west, the snowy walls of Vire.

Then spoke my friend :-"You asked me for the tale
Found in the quaint old ballad-book I bought

At Avranches: listen now; for here's the place
The rhymer sings of: yonder ruined wall
Is all that now remains of Tancreville."
And so we sat us down. The sinking sun
Sped forth his levelled shafts of ruddy gold

Athwart the forest; till the topmost leaves,
Already glowing 'neath the Autumn's hand
With that strange beauty that presages death,
Seemed all aflame, with never flickering fire.
The winds were lulled, and silence reigned around,
Save where with few faint notes the nightingale
Essayed a prelude to the plaintive flood

Of melody, which soon the charmed woods
Should echo back from every far recess.
And then he drew the old black-letter tome
Forth from his pouch and read: and if it were
That something in the weird and mournful tale
Chimed with the silent hour; or that the old
Quaint language of the poet suited well
Our wanderings in the historic land that tells
Not of the Present but the Past in all,
Or that I loved it only for his sake

That read, I know not, but it pleased me well:
And now I write it as he read it then,
And leave it in its rude and olden dress.

FYTTE YE FYRSTE.

THE nighte it was chill and dreare,
And St. Martin's eve was nigh,
When a mayden, clad in russet weedes,
To the lonelie woodes did hie.

The raine fell fast, and loud the winde
Thro' the shivering trees made_mone,

But the mayden recked nor wind nor raine,
And she passed on alone.

Her weedes were sadde, but never in hall
Was seen a fayrer face;

And never had high-born damosel
Such bonnie and winsome grace.
Ah me! what did that mayden there
In the gruesome houre of night,
When never a fere was standing nere
To guard from caityffe spight?

Fierce flashed the levin; the thunder roared;

But never a prayer said she;

And a name she named, and a vowe she vowed,

But not to our Deare Ladye.

She hung her heade, she bent her browe,

As one in doleful tene,

And shuddering ever and agayne,

She sterte the brake within.

The waie it is rough, and there shyneth not
One starre in all the skie;

But on she goes, till the levin shows

That a cottage-doore is nigh.

She knocketh once, she knocketh twice,

She tirleth at the pinne;

And she hears the raine, and the wayling winde,

But never a sound within.

With doulorous plaine she knocks again,
And her quaking harte beats high,

When an eldritch dame unopes the doore,
And gives her entery.

"Now saye thy hest at this houre of reste;
Fayre mayden, say what cause

Hath made thy wearie feet to rome
Beneath the greenwood shaws."

"Oh mother!" quoth she, "I come to crave
Thy spelies of grammarye;

For my love he has grat me sore to weepe,
And a fause, fause loon is he.

"He spake me soft and he spake me swete,
And my lemman he vowed to be;
But now he has given his plighted troth
To a mayde of the north countrie.
"In her father's byre is many a kye,
And ours is toome and bare;

And so he has left his own true love,
To woo a richer fere.

Now rede me a spelle of muckle might,

To till my love to me,

And my mother's chayne of good red gold

I'll presentlie bringe to thee."

But the eerie beldam's glowering eyne
Were burning like a glede;

And stour she looked in the mayden's face,
And thus she read her rede.

"Do off that kirtle of russet hue,

For I know thee, damosel;

Such sorrie weedes beseeme thee not,
Fayre Elsie of Tancreville.

"No carlish hind hath wonne thy love,

But a knighte of high degree:

Ne nobler childe than bold Sir Hugh
May be found in Normandie.

"Thy landes are wide and fayre; and thou Hast broad bezantes in store;

And bold Sir Hugh hath passing few,

But he loves thee never the more.

"Yet here I bringe thee, an thou liste, A spell of muckle might;

A carkanet of the rubies red

Shall till to thee thy knyghte.

"Now claspe it round thy snowy necke,
But keepe my spelle with care;
And see that to our Ladye's grace
Thou never breathe a prayer.

"Ne yet unto her Blessed Sonne
Who dyed upon the tree;

Or on thy head a banne shall light,

By my eldritche grammarye."

Fayre Elsie she raised her hande to take,
But she thought on the Holye Rood;
And shuddering sterte from the beldam hoar,
And in woeful dree she stood.

But then she thought on bold Sir Hugh,
That true and scaythelesse knight,

And she took the eerie carkanette
With rubies all y-pight.

FYTTE YE SECONDE.

Merrie is the lavrock's carol,

On the dewie greenwood spraies;

Merriely the wanton mavis

Chanteth shrill his roundelaies.

Merriely the broade sunne shyneth

Over Vire and Tancreville;

Merriely the bells are ringing

In our Ladye's faire chapelle.

From north and sowth and east and weste,
They are coming in bright arraie,

For the fayrest flowr in Normandie

It is her weddynge daie.

Oh the bridegroom's looke it is gladde and high,
And a prowde prowde man is he;

But there sitteth a smyle on Elsie's face
More sadde than teares to see.

And now the lordlie companye
To our Ladye's shrine is boune,

And at the holy altar-grece

Sir Hugh and his bryde knele down.

The prieste he readeth the hallowed rite,
And giveth his benison:

They knele as two; for wele or wo
Together they rise as one.

But ever as ofte as the holy manne
Would utter our Deare Lorde's name,
His voice it fayleth tremblinglie,

And he wepeth sore for shame.

And ever as ofte as the mayden quier
Doth praye oure Ladye's grace,

Fayre Elsie shudders and bends her lowe,
Fayre Elsie hides her face.

And ever as ofte as she looketh on
The roode on the altar sette,
Lyke a fierie glede, the rubies burn
In that eerie carkanette.

FYTTE YE THYRDE.

Burd Elsie she sittes in her bower so fayre,
But ah! she is sadde of blee;

For a yere and a daie have past away,
And her barne is on her knee.

But ever he greeteth piteouslie,

And eke he maketh mone,

Would draw the teires from a salvage manne,
An his harte were harde as stone.

And his little bodie it wrytheth sore
As of one in bitter teene;

In soothe it was a sadde sadde syghte
To come to hys mother's eyne.

"Deare Ladye, pitty me," then she cried,
For the love of thy Blessed Sonne;
And assoyle my bonnie barne from bale,
That on the tree He wonne."

She hadde not spoken a worde of prayer,
A worde but only two;

When a payne that brente like an arowe keene
Did pierse her fayre halse through.

Eache gemme in that eerie carkanette
With jewels all y-pight,

Did scorche her lyke a fierie glede,
A-shene with ruddie light.

She shrieked alowde; she didde it offe;
She flung it on the floore:

The reek arose around the gemmes,

And she saw it never more.