"I

"Peace," good father-in-law, said the sham Reginald, shaking off his drunkenness, and leering around him with an arch look of self-satisfaction, " I am not Reginald d'Arennes, but yet as good a man! I am Robin, the son of Egwulph; truly a cunning Knave, and a Wily."

"I do begin to perceive," said the waiting-woman, Bertha, looking on the sham Reginald with a disappointed air," that our plot hath altogether failed."

"Mine hath fared no better!" said the Knave, returning a glance of equal disappointment upon the mock Elfrida. "In this I have been but a silly Knave, and a Witless!"

Dost thou comprehend, gentle reader, the circumstances which led to these mistakes? or is it necessary for me to inform thee, that the Knave, Robin, proceeded to Kennet-hold in Reginald's apparel, with the purpose of revenging, by his wedding with the heiress, the death of his master, which he fancied had been occasioned by the heir; that at Kennet-hold the said Knave met with the counterplot which had been prepared by the jocose Saxon, and became the husband of the maid instead of the mistress; that Reginald, recovering from his swoon, after the departure of his attendant, advanced towards Kennet-hold, and encountered, in his way, his new acquaintance, Richard de Mallory; from whom he had the good fortune to rescue the life of Lothaire and the honour of Elfrida?

There is yet one point unexplained. The reader must be aware that a considerable interval took place between the memorable blow given by Lothaire, and his rencontre with de Mallory. Upon this point the MS. makes mention of Winifred— a certain arch-damsel, who but Decorum puts her forefinger on her mouth-I have done.

Rather than desert a long-established custom, I proceed to state that the personages of my Tale lived and loved to a green old age. Robin died before it was thoroughly decided whether he was more properly termed "the Wily" or "the Witless." Reginald, it appears, never got rid of his old trick of hesitation; for it is upon record, that when he told the story of his adventures to Cœur de Lion, at the siege of Acre, and was asked by the humorous Monarch whether the Knight or the Knave were the more fortunate bridegroom, he scratched his chin for a few minutes, played with his sword for a few more, and replied slowly, "I have doubts as touching this matter."

I KNEW that Death was stern and strong,
That sceptred hand and helmed head,
The feared on earth, the famed in song,
Must sink beneath the silent tread ;
That Poet's brain, and Warrior's heart,

And Beauty's most resplendent form,
Glory, and pride, and strength, must part,
To grace the banquet of the worm.

But tell not me-it cannot be,
That Death, my love, may alter thee.

II.

Oh! hast thou ne'er in fancy view'd

The shadows dark of days to comeTheir toils and cares, a hideous brood, Strife with the world's fierce multitude,

Pain, sickness, agony, distress,

When yearns the heart in weariness

Tow'rds absent friends, the dead, the lost,

And those by fortune tempest-tost

To some far distant home?

Though many an hour of love and mirth

May cheer Man's spirit here on earth,

And hast thou ne'er, at fall of Even,

When moans the breeze in sounds of woe, And stars begin to wink in Heaven,

And Earth in twilight melts below,

And, in the stillness of the hour,

The voice of waters solemn seems

Felt some unknown mysterious Power

Breathe o'er thee, from the woods and streams,
Steeping thy soul in tearful dreams;

Till wandering thoughts spring up on high,
As the soul would roam through the starry sky,
And the realms of the sainted dead explore,
Whom the living eye shall view no more,
In the crystal light of their calm retreat,
The look of Earth's affection bearing,
And still their radiant faces wearing
The smile we used to think so sweet?
Thou must have felt that witching hour,
Its deep, and calm, and silent power;
Thou must have felt that tearful gushing

From the heart's fresh and lonely springs;

And the charmed soul through the blue sky rushing,

On the Spirit of Twilight's wings.

Then rise, each sense to rapture hushing,

Visions of unforgotten things,

And they who loved, whose Spirits love us,

Float in the deep blue sky above us,

In dream-like wanderings.

On every passing breeze float by
Voices we loved in infancy-

They tell of some untroubled land,
Where souls that love repose together,
And every white and radiant hand

With gentlest motion waves us thither.
And oh 'tis sweet to rove on high
With that celestial company,

And feel, while yet we breathe beneath,
That hearts remain unchanged in Death.

IV.

In sleep I dream of happy days,

That smile beyond the tomb ;

And fond imagination roves

Through wondrous valleys, fields, and groves,
Where gentle brooks that gush between,

And skies eternally serene,

Make one perpetual bloom.

And ever in those dreams divine,
'Thy gentle Spirit stands by mine;
Thy voice of music wanders by,

Thy form is floating in my view;
And still thy soft and earnest eye
Smiles on me, as 'tis wont to do.

Then tell not me-it cannot be, That Death, my love, can alter thee. 3 с

No. II.

"This is merely the recollection of an actual dream."-BARRY CORNWALL. "Upon my soul a lie!"-SHAKSPEARE.

I HAD a wond'rous Dream-methought I stood
Within the threshold of an ancient house

Which I had loved in childhood-forms well known,
And old, familiar voices were around me;
And happy thoughts, and half-forgotten feelings,
And tearful recollections rose within me,
Bathing each sense in ecstacy. I felt
A gushing at the fountains of my spirit;
My heart dissolved-I was a child again.
Yet as I gazed on each remember'd face,
A freezing pang shot o'er me-a chill sense
Of longing separation, and I knew
That woe was deeply blended with my dream.

I gazed upon the forms around me, One (A matron) had methought been beautiful In other days, but now upon her cheek Sickness had set his seal, and wasting years, And sorrow, worst of all-yet still her mien Held its original sweetness. Piety,

And gentleness, and charity, and faith,

Shone there, and from her soften'd eyes beam'd forth

Serenity which was not of the Earth.

And all around that venerable form

Beautiful creatures floated-cheeks of bloom,

And eyes of watery light, on her alone

Fixed with such fond and beaming earnestness,