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“ Fear not,” quickly answered Hubert;
“ As I am thy father's son,
What thou askest, noble Brother,
With God's favor shall be done."
So were both right well content:
Forth they from the Castle went,
And at the head of their array
To Palestine the Brothers took their way.

Side by side they fought, (the Lucies
Were a line for valor famed,)
And where'er their strokes alighted,
There the Saracens were tamed.
Whence, then, could it come, the thought, -
By what evil spirit brought?
O, can a brave Man wish to take
His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake?

“ Sir!” the Ruffians said to Hubert,
“ Deep he lies in Jordan flood.”
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
“Take your earnings.” — O that I
Could have seen my Brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace !
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered.

To his Castle Hubert sped ;
Nothing has he now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
No one's


had seen him enter,
No one's ear had heard the Horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread,
And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters ;
And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the Horn,
Where by the Castle gate it hung forlorn.

'T is the breath of good Sir Eustace !
He is come to claim his right :
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown,
He is helpless and alone :
Thou hast a dungeon ; speak the word !
And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.

Speak! astounded Hubert cannot ;
And, if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'T is Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern gate he slunk away.

Long and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven :
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honor on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs,
And through ages, heirs of heirs,
A long posterity renowned,
Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.




O, what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine ;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
’T is all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'T is all the same with Harry Gill ;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still !

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he ?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor ;
Ill fed she was and thinly clad ;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas ! ’t was hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,

old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage ; But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. ’T was well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day ; Then at her door the canty Dame Would sit, as any



But when the ice our streams did fetter,
O then how her old bones would shake!
You would have said, if you had met her,
’T was a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead :
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed,
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout,
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.

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