doubt:

That with the rest shall soon appear. Ho, Steward, seek your mistress out And bid her to attend me here!"

In Berkley's breast resolve was stern, For in his proud parental heart, Remembering with what willing art Her favor took the patriots' part, He felt a deep resentment burn.

Although he loved her fondly still, Yet, though all else should be denied,

She should not set her rebel will Against this last hope of his pride: It may be that the flush of wine Gave vigor to his fixed design. Young Esther came: her eye was bright

As if 'twere brimmed with love's own light;

Then flowed her maiden accents clear, "What would you, father? I am here."

"A trifling service," he replied ;There was a strangeness in the tone Which turned her inmost heart to stone:

"Before these written names are dried, Let yours be drying at their side."

With wondering countenance advanced,

Her eye across the paper glanced; Her visage showed a lightningblight,

The color from her cheek was blown, As when from off some festal height The fierce bolt strikes the banner down.

Before her flashed the ready quill, The black blood waiting at the point;

Across her swept a deathly chill

That agued every sinking joint: A very statue, mute and white, She stood, till came the order, "Write!"

"Nay, father: any thing but this,If 'twere to die at your command !' He answered, My sole order is

To write! The pen is in your hand!"

The crumpled remnant of the quill. Within the waning light and gloom To giant size it seemed to loom: Such necromantic power has fright To give to objects double height.

While now the gazers stood aghast, The form, with slow and backward pace,

Confronting still with iron face, Retiring, reached the throne at last Where stood the maiden's harp of gold.

Still paler grew the lights and dim,Or so the frighted fancy told,— While phantom lustre seemed to swim About that form so ghostly grim; And, just behind, the moon's broad rim

Seemed to the very casement rolled, A spectral chariot waiting him:

The gazers' blood ran doubly cold And palsied every limb.

The door, by sudden fury thrust, Swung wide, and hurrying men strode in,

And one, whose voice was like a gust, Cried, "Wherefore all this murderous din ?"

Then, following Sir Hugh's wild stare,
He saw the fallen armor there,
And saw from out the iron seam
A mortal tide of crimson stream.
With hurried stride he crossed the
floor,

And knelt beside the pool of gore,

With rapid hand the visor threw, And started backward at the view, One look told all,-no need of more:From out its sheath his weapon flew.

"I never killed her if she died, It was not here"Your bitter pride Struck at her heart, until her brain By many a cold, proud word was slain !"

The wagoner answered; and the taunt At last awoke the Berkley blood.

"Who dares," he cried, in furious mood,

"Thus in my face such words to flaunt?

And who art thou, who ne'er before

Save once, a rude, unwelcome guest, Was known to enter at my door? What rebel thou, whose coward breast Dares breathe the insult uttered

now?"

"Pray, not so fast," the other cried. "A moment clear your clouded brow,

And let your memory allow I am not one to be defied! That picture there may well attest Whose courage ever was the best, And which it was who quaked with fear

The moment danger came too near. I scorned you even as a child,

Proud, cold, and selfish as you were; A younger brother, oft reviled,

I would not be your pensioner, And so I left you to yourself, With all your boasted pride and pelf.

"A rebel !-nay, let that foul name Flush your own coward cheek with shame:

'Tis ye are black Rebellion's knaves, Traitors to Freedom and to God, Who dare upon this sacred sod Exalt the slave-compelling rod, Being slaves yourselves, to make us slaves!

"While throbs a heart,-while Heaven is just,

While on the banner of our trust One star remains to fight beneath, No blade of ours shall seek its sheath,

No cannon hold its direful breath,

Till on the bitter field of death The bold enslaver bites the dust.

Already, even as pictured there,

The joy has oft been mine to take In this good grasp the tyrant snake And fling him writhing in despair."

"My brother, thou?" Sir Hugh replied,

The while the wagoner's form he eyed,

Scanning in scorn, from head to foot,
The patriot's rough and rustic suit.
"Tis false! No Berkley scion yet
His high-born lineage could forget,

To wear such rude and menial form
And be the thing which thou art
now!"-

He spake, and back recoiled a pace
Before the anger of that face:

He dared no further brook the storm
Which gathered on that threaten-
ing brow.

But now his troubled eye again
Was cast upon the stripling slain,
And, with a look which strove in
vain

To hide the doubt within his brain, He cried, "'Tis false! No blood of mine

E'er wandered vagrant through the land;

No Berkley son would raise a hand In honor of the rebel line! No child of mine

"Still must I hear ?" Sir Hugh replied;

"Are my assertions all denied? The boy was never son of mine, Though harbored long beneath my roof:

In shades condemned, or realms divine,

That truant woman's wandering ghost No Berkley offspring dares to boast:I challenge every proof!"

The wagoner turned, and whispered, "Hark!

What newer misery thrills the dark? What voice is that approaching near? Sir Hugh!-Sir Hugh!-look up and hear!"

Thus as he spoke, a mournful air Seemed winding down the shadowy stair,

Still nearing and more near; and soon The words came clearly with the tune.

SONG.

I.

Oh, cold was the bridegroom,
All frozen with pride:
He first slew her lover,
Then made her his bride.

II.

Beneath a green willow, And under a stone, They buried her lover, And left her alone.

III.

With naught but the bridegroom's
Proud breast for her head,

Oh, how could she live when
Her lover was dead?

IV.

Her body they buried

Beside the church wall; Her ghost with the bridegroom Sat up in the hall :

V.

Sat up at his table,

Lay down in his bed:Oh, cold was the bridegroom,— But colder the dead!

The singer entered. Was it a ghost,
Or sleeper walking unaware?
Her large eyes, as in revery lost,

Bent forward their unearthly stare; Wild o'er her shoulders fell her ¦ hair;

Her face was like her garments white; Her thin hands bore a wavering light, Which shed a pale and mournful glare

Across those features of despair.

Still forward walked that form of awe,
As if her wide eyes nothing saw,
Until, in middle of the room,
The centre of that scene of gloom,
She cast a slow, dull glance around,
And looked as she had nothing found:
Across their very faces past

Those eyes to which all seemed a
blank,

Till on the floor her glance was cast; And there, as that look was her last, She gazed upon those features white; From out her fingers dropt the light, And on the armored breast she sank.

It needed but that last wild gust

Of grief to blow from Nora's frame Life's low, unsteady, flickering flame,

And leave it dark and soulless dust.

"Sir Hugh!-Sir Hugh!" He was not there:

Sir Hugh was gone, they knew not

where.

But there the haughty suitor stood, His bright sword flashing in his hand,

As if the keen, defying brand His nuptial claim should still make good.

This saw the wagoner, as he laid
On Edgar's arm the fainting maid;
And, ere the soldier was aware,
He stood without a weapon there:

My friend abruptly closed the book: I felt as one who long had sailed Gazing with anxious landward look,—

Who, just as the fair port is hailed, And the rough prow goes dipping in, Suddenly hears the anchor's din, And, lo! the ship is at full stand: There move the people on the land, And there are voices from the beach, But mournfully all out of reach.

My face the crowding questions wore : He said, "A little patience yet, And soon the landing skiff and oar

Your feet upon the shore shall set." Then at the sinking fire his hands Gathered and piled the sundered brands,

Until the hearth was reillumed: ""Tis thus," he said, "the story stands:

A fallen end or two demands To be regathered and consumed.

"How goes the wine? 'Tis rare and old:

Or do you taste the earthy mould? Some seasons past, while men of mine

Were hollowing out an ample space To give our hothouse-wall its base, I stood to watch them bravely delve And see they followed well the line,

When suddenly to its very helve The pick went in with crush and crash, Spattering all with a purple splash;