It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long betrothed were they: They two will wed the morrow morn: G.o.d's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me."

"O G.o.d be thanked!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"

Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?"

"As G.o.d is above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child.

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread!

I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, "I will speak out, for I dare not lie.

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can."

She said, "Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "The man will cleave unto his right."

"And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Tho' I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!

Alas, my child, I sinned for thee."

"O mother, mother, mother," she said, "So strange it seems to me.

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by town, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!

Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?"

"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and deed.

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."

O and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail: She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn: He turned and kissed her where she stood: "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood--

"If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare."

ALFRED TENNYSON.

BELSHAZZAR.

Belshazzar is king! Belshazzar is lord!

And a thousand dark n.o.bles all bend at his board: Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood; Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, And the beauty that maddens the pa.s.sions of earth; And the crowds all shout, Till the vast roofs ring,-- "All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

"Bring forth," cries the Monarch, "the vessels of gold, Which my father tore down from the temples of old;-- Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the G.o.ds of bright silver, of gold, and of stone; Bring forth!" and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and drinks the dark wine; Whilst the trumpets bray, And the cymbals ring,-- "Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

Now what cometh--look, look!--without menace, or call?

Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall?

What pierceth the king like the point of a dart?

What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?

"Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound!"

They are read--and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!

Hark!--the Persian is come On a conqueror's wing; And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

[Ill.u.s.tration: BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST.

J. MARTIN.]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

AN INCIDENT OF THE SEPOY MUTINY.

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills!

Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled, and nearer crept; Round and round, the jungle serpent Near and nearer circles swept.

"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- Pray to-day!" the soldier said, "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread,"