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seeming courage enough," and so on the inexorable
scaffold expiated her crime, and was beheaded
as Jeane Levingstoune had been.


THROUGH the woods of Normandy, and past the
yellow haunted meres,

Rode Count Abel, at the sunrise, in a girth of fifty

Bright his eye, and broad his forehead; and in many
a wrinkled mass

Rolled his tawn hair down his shoulders, like a
scarp of shining brass.

Bridal colours, gorgeous favours, knight and swart
retainer wore,

And the keen points of their lances twisted rose and
lily bore;

Cheerly blew the morning breezes; cheerly, over
holt and lea,

Rang the silver-hearted steeples to the bridal company.

As they pricked with jest and laughter through the
blasted linden dells,

On the wind there slid the clamours, low and long,
of funeral bells,

Solemn wailings, like the noises heard upon a
northern shore,

When the grim sea-caves are tideless and the storm
strives at their core.

As along the dusky pine-lands in a silent band they

The bell-throated lamentation louder to the south
was heard,

Peals of heart-delivered anguish, seething, steaming
to the skies,

Like the writhing smoke uplifted from some mountain

Where a freshet, amber-sided, trickled lightnings
through the gorse,

The brave bridegroom, fair Count Abel, turned aside
and reined his horse;

Placed his hand within his bosom, and from out his
doublet's fold

Slowly drew, with trembling hand, a jewelled disk
of ruddy gold.

"Come hither, Bertrand, to my side; come hither,
loving trusty knight;

Look, and tell me what thou seest hidden in the
locket bright?

By the sword that smote thy shoulders, and the
great badge thou dost wear,

Take the trinket in thy palm, and say what thou
beholdest there."

"I see the love-lock of thy bride, my gentle sister

Whiter than the sea-creek, chafing nightly in the
sad moonshine;

Greyer than the sunless snow-drift clinging to the
Summer crag

Greyer than the death lock gathered from the poll
of a strangled hag."

"Then, God shield us, good Sir Bertrand; it was
only yesternight,

Once, and twice, and thrice I kissed it in the swinging
cresset light,

And I saw it brown and golden as the antlers of the

When their great heads bourgeon, oak-like, in the
spring-time of the year."

"Spur on:" they galloped o'er the swarth; they
plunged into the roaring ford;

The riders' brows were damp with sweat; the swift
strong horses' flanks were gored;

Upon glittering plume and bonnet the hot sun of
July shone,

And ever cried the frighted count, "Spur on, spur
on, good friends, spur on."

High on the swart ridge of a hill they paused a little
space for breath,

The long, green valley of Rennay, with many a
brook, sheamed underneath;

A funeral train crept up the slopes, with holy
chants, and sacred rights,

With cowled priests, and wimpled nuns, and singing
clerks and acolytes.

And, in the middle of the train, prone on a bier of
satin fair,

Did sleep the Lady Madeline, a white rose in her
ashbud hair:

Her sad palms clasped above her breast, in the mute
trustfulness of faith,

And on her cheek and on her lids, the mystic presences
of death.

With baskets brimmed with rosemary, the passion-blossom
of the soul,

Walked three score maidens, scattering flowers, and
chanting solemn psalms of dole:

The quick bells tinkled silverly, thick smoked the
balm-fed thurifers,

And the great crosses slanted towards the mountain
space of sepulchres.

Down rode Count Abel from the group, and reined
his horse beside the dead,

Looked in her face, and to her brow he slowly bent
his plumed head.

"Tell me, my God," he cried aloud, and sudden
dropped the silken rein,

"What foul misdeed assoils my soul that thou hast
cut my heart in twain?"

Then rising, to the blinded heavens he stretched his
hands despairing forth,

Shrieked, reeled aslant his saddle bows, and, falling
headlong, smote the earth.

Yet clutched he fondly in his hand the locket rich
with jewels fair,

And rounding in its goodly orb the white prophetic
lock of hair.

Still up the valley passed the train, with holy
chants and pious rites,

With cowl├Ęd priests, and wimpled nuns, and singing
clerks and acolytes,

But men aver the lady's eyes did slowly open bright
and broad,

And looked, upon the fallen count, sweet pity, and
the peace of God.


IT must never be imagined that slavery is
the only real cause of dissension between the
Northern and the Southern States of America.
It is certainly just at present the primary one;
it may even be allowed to be the deepest rooted
and longest standing one; but unfortunately it
it is only the head of a large family.

Far be it from me to write one word that
should widen a breach lamentable to all friends
of freedom. I mean only to describe from my