THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE LADY ETHELINE.

I.

Of a maiden's beauty the world-wide praise Was a thing of duty in chivalrous days, When her envied name was a nation's fame, And raised in knights' breasts an emulous flame, Which lighted to honour and grand emprise— Things always so lovely in ladies' eyes; For a true woman's favour will ever be won By that which is noble and nobly done.

Sir Peregrine sounded his bugle horn With a note of love and a blast of scorn; Of love to the Ladye Etheline Up in yon Castle of Eaglestein, Whose beauty had passed o'er Christian land As a philter to nerve the resolute hand Of many a knight in the goodly throng Who gathered round Godfrey of Buglion, With Richard, and Raymond, and Leopold, And thousands of others as brave and bold; And a blast of scorn to every knight Who would dare to challenge his envied right. The porte yields quick to the warder's hand By the Yerl's consent, by the Yerl's command; And the ladye, who knew the winding sound, As the tra-la-la rang all around, Has opened her casement up on high, And thrown him the kiss of her courtesy.

II.

"I am come, fair ladye, to beg of thee, As here I crave upon bended knee, That thou wilt grant unto my prayer A single lock of thy golden hair, To wear in a lockheart over my breast, And carry with me to the balmy East— The land where the Saviour met his death, The sacred Salem of saving faith, Which holds the sepulchre of our Lord, Defiled by a barbarous Paynim horde. Grant me the meed for which I burn, And, by our Ladye, on my return, We will wedded be in the sacred bands Of a sacrament sealed by holy hands."

The ladye has, with a gesture bland, Taken her scissors into her hand, And clipt a lock of her auburn hair, And yielded it to his ardent prayer; But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes Hath fallen upon the golden prize. "Ah! blessed drop," said the knight, and smiled— "This tear was from thine heart beguiled, And I take it to be an omen of good, For tears, my love, are purified blood, That impart a beauty to female eyes, And vouch for her kindly sympathies." "Ah! no, ah! no," the maid replied— "An omen of ill," and she heavily sighed; Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek, Nor further word could the damoiselle speak. Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still, "If tears, my love, are an omen of ill, The way to deprive them of evil spell Is to kiss them away, and—all is well!" And he took in his arms the yielding maid, And kissed them away, as he had said.

The warder has oped the porteluse again, To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train. Loud spoke the horn o'er fell and dell, "Fare thee—fare thee—fare thee well;" But Etheline, as she waved her hand, Could not those flowing tears command, And thought the bugle in sounds did say, "Fare thee—fare thee well for aye."

III.

A year has passed: at Eaglestein There sat the Ladye Etheline; Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale, Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail; For though through the world's busy crowd The deeds of the war were sung aloud, And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled With Godfrey's among the brave and bold, No letter had come from her knight so dear, To belie the spell of the lock and tear. The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say, "Alas! for the hour when he went away." But the womb of old Time is everly full, And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull. Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear, And echoed around both far and near; It is Sir Ronald from Palestine— Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline. "I have come," said he, "through pain and peril, To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl: Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan, Who slew our most gallant capitan! Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour, Fell wounded before High Salem's tower, And ere he died he commissioned me To bear to Scotland, and give to thee, This bit of the genuine haly rood Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood, That thou mightst give it to Etheline, As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine."

IV.

All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere, The ancient elms seem withered and bare, The river asleep in its rushy bed, The waters are green, and the grass is red, The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers, Where oft in the dewy evening hours, Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell, And the merle was singing her day-farewell, The Lady Etheline would recline And think of her dear Sir Peregrine: All was cheerless now, forlorn, As if they missed her at early morn; At noontide and at evening fall They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.

In the solary, up in the western wing, The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing For one so young, so gentle, and fair, Their only child, lying ailing there, Waning and waning slowly away, Yet waxing more beautiful every day, As if she were drawing from spheres above, Before she got there, the spirit of love, Which shone as a light through the silken lire, Pure as was that of the vestal fire; And ever she kissed in hysterical mood The bit of the cross all red with blood. "Oh mother dear! I wish—I fear The time of my going is drawing near: Last night, at the mirk and midnight hour, A voice seemed to come through my chamber door— For the ear of the dying is tender and fine— And three times it sounded Etheline; And it is true, as I've heard say, Such voices are calls to come away— The voices of angels hovering near, Who wish us to join them in yonder sphere." "Oh! no, oh! no, my own dear child, Thine overfine ears have thee beguiled: It was the Yerl, when in a dream, Who three times called thy dear-loved name; I heard the call as awake I lay, And thou mayst believe what now I say."

"Oh mother! oh mother! what do I hear? It is the nightingale singing clear; I have heard the notes in Italian clime, And remember them since that early time; And it is true, as I've heard say, That when the nightingale sings by day, The dying who hears it will pass away." "No, no, my child, the song you hear Is that of the throstle-cock singing clear: I see him upon the linden tree, And you, if you like, may also see. I know its speckled breast too well; It is not, dear child, the nightingale."

When this she heard, the maiden sighed, As if she were vexed she was denied The hope of passing quickly away To yon regions bright of eternal day.

"Oh mother! list, what do I hear? Sir Peregrine's horn is winding clear; Ah, I know the sound, as it seems to say In its windings, 'Hali-hali-day;' And it is true, as I've heard tell, When a dead man's horn sounds loud and shrill, It is a true sign to his earthly bride, He will wait for her spirit at evening tide."

The Countess turned her face to the Yerl; It was true what was said by the dying girl; It was Sir Peregrine's horn they heard, And they both sat mute, nor whispered a word, For they wondered much, and were sore afraid Of mysteries working about the maid, Who, as she lay in her ecstasie, Kept muttering slow an Ave Marie: "Oh, Lady sweet! the sign hath come, Happy the maid whom her knight calls home; It is the nightingale that I hear, The golden sun is shining clear; And I've heard tell in time past gone, Blessed is the bier that the sun shines on."

And, as they listened, there came to their ear The grating of the portcullis gear, And a cry of fear from the ballion green, As if the retainers a ghost had seen: Tramp and tramp on the scalière, And along the corridor leading there; The door is opened, and lo! comes in The leal and the living Sir Peregrine. "Holy Maria!" the Countess cried, "Holy Maria!" the Yerl replied; The maid looked up, then sank her head, As an Ave Marie again she said: "Ave Marie! my sweet ladye, Ave Marie! I come to thee. Ah, soft and clear those eyes of thine, That look so kindly into mine; Oh Ladye sweet! stretch forth thy hand To welcome me to yon happy land; Oh Virgin! open thy bosom fair, That thy poor child may nestle there;" Then she laid her arms across her breast, And gently, softly, sank to rest. The throstle-cock's voice rang out more clear On the linden tree there growing near, And the sun burst forth with brighter ray On the couch where her spirit had passed away.

V.

Over hollow, and over height, Sir Peregrine sought that caitiff knight Who had wrought such woe to Eaglestein— To him and the Lady Etheline. The time has come and the wish made good, The villain he met in the Calder Wood. "Hold, hold, thou basest dastard Theou, For Ceorl's a name thou'rt far below; Ten lives like thine would not suffice To be to my soul a sacrifice; There is the glaive, it is thine to try. Or with it or without it thou must die." But the caitiff laughed a laugh of scorn: "Come on, thou bastard of bastards born." Their falchions are gleaming in bright mid-day: They rushed like tigers upon their prey; Sir Peregrine's eyes flashed liquid fire, The caitiff's shone out with unholy ire; But victory goes not aye with right, Nor the race to those the quickest in flight. Sir Peregrine's fury o'ershot his aim: His sword breaks through—his arm is maim! With nothing to wield, with nothing to ward. No word of mercy or quarter heard; With a breast-wound deep as his heart he lies, A look of scorn—Sir Peregrine dies.

Behind the crumbling walls of Eaglestein, The tomb of the old Yerls may still be seen, And there long mouldering lay close side by side, Sir Peregrine the bold and his fair bride; Their ashes scattered now and blown away, As thine and mine will be some coming day. This world is surely an enchanted theme, A thing of seims and shows—a wild fantastic dream.