As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.

For Robert, both his eyes were dry,―
He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem'd to watch the rain; yea! too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips,-and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush'd them-

With a start

Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand
In Robert's hair; she saw him bend
Back Robert's head; she saw him send
The thin steel down; the blow told well;
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moan'd as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem. So then
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.

Then Godmar turn'd again, and said—
"So, Jehane! the first fitte is read.
Take note, my lady! that your way
Lies backward to the Châtelet!"
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.

This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.

RICHARD HENGIST HORNE.
1803-

HAJARLIS.

I loved Hajarlis, and was loved,—
Both children of the Desert we;
And deep as were her lustrous eyes,
My image ever could I see.

And in my heart she also shone,
As doth a star above a well;
And we each other's thoughts enjoy'd,
As camels listen to a bell.

A Sheik unto Hajarlis came,

And said-" Thy beauty fires my dreams : Young Ornab spurn! fly to my tent!

So shalt thou walk in golden beams."

But from the Sheik my maiden turn'd,
And he was wroth with her, and me;
Hajarlis down a pit was lower'd,

And I was fasten'd to a tree.

Nor bread nor water had she there;

But oft a slave would come and go;

O'er the pit bent he, muttering words,-
And aye took back the unvarying "No!"

The simoom came with sullen glare!

Breathed Desert-mysteries through my tree!—

I only heard the starving sighs

From that pit's mouth unceasingly.

Day after day-night after night-
Hajarlis' famish'd moans I hear!
And then I pray'd her to consent-

For my sake, in my wild despair.

Calm strode the Sheik, look'd down the pit,

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And said " Thy beauty now is gone;

Thy last moans will thy lover hear,

While thy slow torments feed my scorn!"

They spared me that I still might know
Her thirst and frenzy-till at last
The pit was silent!-and I felt

Her life-and mine-were with the past.

A friend that night cut through my bonds;
The Sheik amidst his camels slept;
We fired his tent, and drove them in,-
And then with joy I scream'd and wept.

And cried-" A Spirit comes array'd,

From that dark pit, in golden beams! Thy slaves are fled, thy camels mad,— Hajarlis once more fires thy dreams!"

The camels blindly trod him down,

While still we drove them o'er his bed; Then with a stone I beat his breast,

As I would smite him ten times dead.

MARY BETHAM HOWITT.
1804-

THE FAIRies of the CALDON LOW. A Midsummer Legend.

"And where have you been? my Mary!
And where have you been from me?
"I've been to the top of the Caldon Low,
The midsummer-night to see."

"And what did you see, my Mary!
All up on the Caldon Low?"
"I saw the glad sunshine come down

And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary! All up on the Caldon Hill?"

"I heard the drops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill."

"O tell me all, my Mary!

All, all that ever you know :
For you must have seen the Fairies
Last night on the Caldon Low!"

"Then take me on your knee, Mother!
And listen, mother of mine!
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine.

"And their harp-strings rung so merrily
To their dancing feet so small ;
But O, the words of their talking
Were merrier far than all."

"And what were the words, my Mary! That then you heard them say?”

"I'll tell you all, my mother!

But let me have my way.

"Some of them play'd with the water, And roll'd it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill.

"For there has been no water Ever since the first of May;

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And a busy man will the miller be

At dawning of the day.

"O the miller how he will laugh

When he sees the mill-dam rise!

The jolly old miller, how he will laugh
Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some, they seized the little winds That sounded over the hill;

And each put a horn unto his mouth,

And blew both loud and shrill ;

"And there,' they said,' the merry

winds go

Away from every horn,

And they shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow's corn.

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"O the poor blind widow,

Though she has been blind so long,

She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone
And the corn stands tall and strong!'

"And some, they brought the brown lint-seed, And flung it down from the Low;

'And this,' they said,—' by the sunrise In the weaver's croft shall grow.

"O the poor lame weaver,

How will he laugh outright

When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!'

"And then outspake a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin :
'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,-
'And I want some more to spin.

"I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another :
A little sheet for Mary's bed,
And an apron for her mother.'

"With that I could not help but laugh,
And I laugh'd out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon Low
There was no one left but me.