Her prayer of love thus Ellen poured, With streaming eyes and bosom heaving; And, at each faint heart-wringing word, Her soul seemed its fair prison leaving: The linnet, on the hawthorn tree, Stood hushed by her deep misery; And the soft summer evening gale Seemed echoing the maiden's wail.

And now the solid rocks divide, A glorious fairy hall disclosing; There Cleena stands, and by her side, In slumber, Gerald seems reposing: She wakes him from his fairy trance; And, hand in hand, they both advance; And, now, the queen of fairy charms Gives Gerald to his Ellen's arms.

"Be happy," lovely Cleena cried, "Oh! lovers true, and fair, and peerless; All vain is magic, to divide Such hearts, so constant, and so fearless.

Be happy, as you have been true, For Cleena's blessing rests on you; And joy, and wealth, and power, shall give, As long as upon earth you live."

THE FALSE FONTANLEE.

BY WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.

Alas, that knight of n.o.ble birth Should ever fall from fitting worth!

Alas, that guilty treachery Should stain the blood of Fontanlee!

The king hath lent a listening ear, And blacker grew his face to hear: "By Cross," he cried, "if thou speak right, The Fontanlee is a traitor knight!"

Outstepped Sir Robert of Fontanlee, A young knight and a fair to see; Outstepped Sir Stephen of Fontanlee.

Sir Robert's second brother was he; Outstepped Sir John of Fontanlee, He was the youngest of the three.

There are three gloves on the oaken boards, And three white hands on their hilted swords: "On horse or foot, by day or night, We stand to do our father right."

The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee, And gathered him up the gages three: "Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis, And ye know not how false your father is.

"Put on, put on your armour bright; And G.o.d in heaven help the right!"

"G.o.d help the right!" the sons replied; And straightway on their armour did.

The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes, Looked fairly up in the open skies:

"If my father was true in deed and in word, Fight, O G.o.d, with my righteous sword; If my father was false in deed or in word, Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!"

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; Sir Robert's visor is crushed and marred, And he lies his length on the battle-sward.

Sir Stephen's was an angry blade-- I scarce may speak the words he said: "Though Heaven itself were false," cried he, "True is my father of Fontanlee!

"And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong, If this lying baron should lay me along, Strike another blow for our good renown."

"Doubt me not," said the young knight John.

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; In bold Sir Stephen's best life-blood His spear's point is wet to the wood.

The young knight John hath bent his knee, And speaks his soul right solemnly: "Whatever seemeth good to Thee, The same, O Lord, attend on me.

"What though my brothers lie along, My father's faith is firm and strong: Perchance thy deeply-hid intent Doth need some n.o.bler instrument.

"Let faithless hearts give heed to fear, I will not falter in my prayer: If ever guilty treachery Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,--

"As such an 'if' doth stain my lips, Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,-- Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast, And my soul seek its endless rest."

Never a whit did young John yield When the lance ran through his painted shield; Never a whit debased his crest, When the lance ran into his tender breast.

"What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John, That runs so fast from thine armour down?"

"Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel, And it wets me through from the waist to the heel."

Sights of sadness many a one A man may meet beneath the sun; But a sadder sight did never man see Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.

There are three corses manly and fair, Each in its armour, and each on its bier; There are three squires weeping and wan, Every one with his head on his hand,

Every one with his hand on his knee, At the foot of his master silently Sitting, and weeping bitterly For the broken honour of Fontanlee.

Who is this at their sides that stands?

"Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands; Tell me who these dead men be That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee."

"This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee, A young knight and a fair to see; This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee, Sir Robert's second brother was he; This is Sir John of Fontanlee, He was the youngest of the three.

"For their father's truth did they Freely give their lives away, And till he doth home return, Sadly here we sit and mourn."

These sad words they having said, Every one down sank his head; Till in accents strangely spoken, At their sides was silence broken.

"I do bring you news from far, False was the Fontanlee in war!

--Unbend your bright swords from my breast, I that do speak do know it best."

Wide he flung his mantle free; Lo, it was the Fontanlee!

Then the squires like stricken men Sank into their seats again, And their cheeks in wet tears steeping Fresh and faster fell a weeping.

He with footsteps soft and slow Round to his sons' heads did go; Sadly he looked on every one, And stooped and kissed the youngest, John.

Then his weary head down bending, "Heart," said he, "too much offending, Break, and let me only be Blotted out of memory."

Thrice with crimson cheek he stood, And thrice he swallowed the salt blood; Then outpoured the torrent red; And the false Fontanlee lay dead.

THE LEGEND OF SAINT LAURA.

BY THOMAS LOVE PEAc.o.c.k.

Saint Laura, in her sleep of death, Preserves beneath the tomb --'Tis willed where what is willed must be-- In incorruptibility, Her beauty and her bloom.

So pure her maiden life had been, So free from earthly stain, 'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own Queen That till the earth's last closing scene She should unchanged remain.

Within a deep sarcophagus Of alabaster sheen, With sculptured lid of roses white, She slumbered in unbroken night, By mortal eyes unseen.

Above her marble couch was reared A monumental shrine, Where cloistered sisters gathering round, Made night and morn the aisle resound With choristry divine.