"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, 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 It was near the ringing of matin bell, The lady look'd through the chamber fair, And she was aware, of knight stood there, Sir Richard of Coldinghame. "Alas! -"Alas! away! away!"-fhe cried, 66 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, The Lady fhrunk, and fainting funk, The fable score of fingers four There is a nun in Melrose bower There is a monk in Dryburgh tower, He speaketh word to none. That nun who ne'er beholds the day, 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, Careless cafts the parting glance Joying in his prancing steed, Keen to prove his untried blade, Helpless, Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn, Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn, Mark her breaft's convulfive throbs! Wild the curfed, and wild fhe pray'd; Far from her, and far from France, Heard ye not the boding found, Told the fourth, the fated hour} Starts the fteed, and fnuffs the air, Desperate, |