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"Now hail! now hail! thou Lady bright!""Now hail! thou Baron true!

"What news what news, from Ancram fight? "What news from the bold Buccleuch?",

"The Ancram Moor is red with gore, "For many a Southern fell;

"And Buccleugh has charged us evermore, "To watch our beacons well."

The Lady blush'd red, but nothing she said,

Nor added the Baron a word;

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,
And fo did her moody Lord.

In fleep the Lady mourn'd, and the Baron tofs'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he faid,

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is

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It was near the ringing of matin bell,
The night was well nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St. John.

The lady look'd through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame,

And she was aware, of knight stood there,

Sir Richard of Coldinghame.

"Alas!

-"Alas! away! away!"-fhe cried,
"For the holy Virgin's fake."-
-"Lady, I know who fleeps by thy fide;
"But, Lady, he will not awake.

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By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, "In bloody grave have I lain;

"The mafs and the death-prayer are faid for me, "But, Lady, they're faid in vain.

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair ftrand,

"Moft foully flain I fell,

"And my restless sprite on the beacon height "For a space is doom'd to dwell.

"At our tryfting-place,* for a certain space,

"I muft wander to and fro;

"But I had not had power to come to thy bower "Had'st thou not conjured me fo.”—

Love mafter'd fear-her brow the crofs'd;

"How, Richard, haft thou fped?

"And art thou faved, or art thou lost ?"

The vifion fhook his head!

"Who spilleth life, fhall forfeit life; "So bid thy Lord believe:

* Tryfting-place, Scottish for a place of rendezvous.

"And

"And lawless love is guilt above; "This awful fign receive."

He laid his left hand on an oaken ftand,
His right hand on her arm:

The Lady fhrunk, and fainting funk,
For the touch was fiery warm.

The fable score of fingers four
Remain on that board imprefs'd,
And for evermore that Lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Melrose bower
Ne'er looks upon the fun;

There is a monk in Dryburgh tower,

He speaketh word to none.

That nun who ne'er beholds the day,
That monk who fpeaks to none,
That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
That monk the bold Baron,

No.

No. XXII.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

GERMAN.- WALTER SCOTT

This Ballad is translated (but with such alterations and additions, that it may almost be called original) from the fragment of a Romance, sung in Goethe's Opera of "Claudina von Villa Bella."

FREDERICK leaves the land of France,
Homewards haftes his fteps to measure;

Careless cafts the parting glance
On the scene of former pleasure ;

Joying in his prancing steed,

Keen to prove his untried blade,
Hope's gay dreams the foldier lead
Over mountain, moor, and glade.

Helpless,

Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn,
Lovely Alice wept alone,

Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn,
Hope, and peace, and honour flown,

Mark her breaft's convulfive throbs!
See, the tear of anguish flows!
Mingling foon with burfting fobs,
Loud the laugh of frenzy rose,

Wild the curfed, and wild fhe pray'd;
Seven long days and nights are o'er ;
Death in pity brought his aid,
As the village bell ftruck four,

Far from her, and far from France,
Faithlefs Frederick onward rides,
Marking blythe the morning's glance
Mantling o'er the mountain's fides.

Heard ye not the boding found,
As the tongue of yonder tower,
Slowly, to the hills around,

Told the fourth, the fated hour}

Starts the fteed, and fnuffs the air,
Yet no caufe of dread appears;
Brilles high the rider's hair,
Struck with ftrange myfterious fears.

Desperate,

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