And she is now Sir Ormond's bride,
A tearful, melancholy thing,-
Seeking her broken peace to hide,
Her wounded heart's corroding sting.
Her suffering meekly borne,-subdued,—
Her alms, her piety, her woe,—
From vassal and from soldier rude,
The tear of pity forc'd to flow.
It was a summer holiday,
Bright on old Haigh the sunbeams shine,
But Mabel's thoughts are far away,
With her dead Lord in Palestine.
To 'scape awhile from goading thought,
She calls the weary wanderer near;
Her alms the poor and wretched sought,
And bless'd her bounty with a tear.
Among them stands a palmer grey,
Lonely and travel-toil'd was he,
Long had he been from home away,
In regions o'er the billowy sea.
He ask'd not alms,-he only pray'd
A message to her ear to bring;
And Mabel, trembling and afraid,
Saw in his hand a silver ring.
The ring, it was Sir William's token,
The voice, thrill'd to her heart with pain,"Mabel!"—the magic word was spoken, "Bradshaw returns to thee again!”
Now from the tower his banner flies,
And merrily, merrily peal the bells,
Away the base one distant flies,
And gladness in each bosom swells.
And Mabel hail'd her banish'd one,
And smiles are chasing tears away;
Still expiation must be done,
For former things, these legends say.
Her peace of mind again to bring,
To lull remorse-the worst of foesFrom conscience take its venom'd sting, A daily pilgrimage she goes.
For where yon mould'ring cross is seen,
Still bearing Mab's forgotten name,
There have her weary footsteps been,
For daily there, the pilgrim came.
Go seek their tomb-in effigy,
Of cold grey stone two forms recline. Their names alone you there may see
Such dark oblivion waits on time!
"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
ILLUSTRIOUS dead! one tributary sigh,
In that great temple where the mighty lie,
I breath'd for you,—a magic charm was there,
Where rest the great and good,—the wise and fair,
Their glitt'ring day of fame has had its close,
And beauty, genius, grandeur, there repose.
Immortal names! Kings, queens, and statesmen rise,
In marble forms before the gazer's eyes.
Cold, pale, and silent, down each lessening aisle,
They clust'ring stand, and mimic life awhile.
The warrior chief, in sculptured beauty dies,
And in Fame's clasping arms for ever lies,
"Each in his place of state," the rivals stand,
The senators who saved a sinking land:
Majestic, graceful,-each with "lips apart,"
Whose eloquence subdued and won the heart.-
Pitt!-round thy name how bright a halo burns,
When memory to thy day of glory turns!
Round Fox's tomb, what forms angelic weep,
And ever watch that chill and marble sleep!
Silence how eloquent!-how deep, profound,
Do thoughts that have not language, steal around.
Here sceptred monarchs, in death's slumbers lie,
Tudors, Plantagenets,-they too could die!
Beneath a scutchion'd arch, with banners spread,
Unhappy, murderd Richard, rests his head:
While Pomfret's walls, in ruin grimly tell,
How fought the brave, and how the noble fell!
But who lies here ?-in marble lovely still,
Here let me pause, and fancy take her fill;-
Poor ill-starr'd Mary! darkly pass'd away,
Thy life's sad closing hour, in Fotheringay!
How near thee lies, that bright "star of the west,"
Elizabeth,-of queens the wisest,-best,-
Her "lion port," and her imperial brow,
The dark grey stone essays in vain to show.
Ye royal rivals of a former day,
How has your love and hatred pass'd away!
To future times how faint the voice of fame,
For greatness here but "stalks an empty name!"
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