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Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory,

And took the sting from death!
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up

On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell that night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On Earth's sepulchral clod, The dark’ning universe defy To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!


The Ritter Bann from Hungary

Came back, renowned in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry

And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revels, he

Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room. There entered one whose face he knew

Whose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listened to,

In the holy house of prayer. 'Twas the Abbot of St. James's monks,

A fresh and fair old man; His reverend air arrested er'n The gloomy Ritter Bann.


But seeing with him an ancient dame

Come clad in Scotch attire,
The Ritter's colour went and came,

And loud he spoke in ire,
“ Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,

Name not her name to me; I wish it blotted from


brain : Art poor?-take alms, and flee." “ Sir Knight,” the abbot interposed,

This case your ear demands;" And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed

In both her trembling hands :
“ Remember, each his sentence waits ;

And he that shall rebut
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates

of Mercy shall be shut.
You wedded undispensed by Church,

Your cousin Jane in Spring ;-
In Autumn, when you went to search

For Churchmen’s pardoning,
Her house denounced your marriage-band,

Retrothed her to De Grey,
And the ring you put upon her hand

Was wrenched by force away
Then wept your Jane upon my neck,

Crying, 'Help me, nurse, to flee
To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan-hills :'

But word arrived-ah me!-
You were not there; and 'twas their threat,

By foul means or by fair,
To-morrow morning was to set

The seal on her despair.

I had a son, a sea-boy, in

A ship at Hartland bay;
By his aid from her cruel kin

I bore my bird away.
To Scotland from the Devon's

Green myrtle shores we fled;
And the Hand that sent the ravens

To Elijah, gave us bread.
She wrote you by my son, but he

From England sent us word
You had gone into some far countrie,

In grief and gloom he heard.
For they had wronged you, to elude

Your wrath, defamed my child;
And you—ay, blush, Sir, as you should-

Believed, and were beguiled.
To die but at your feet, she vowed

To roam the world; and we
Would both have sped and begged our bread,

But so it might not be.
For when the snow-storm beat our roof,

She bore a boy, Sir Bann,
Who grew as fair your likeness proof

As child e'er grew like man.
'Twas smiling on that babe one morn

While health bloomed on the moor,
Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn

As he hunted past our door.
She shunned him, but he raved of Jane,

And roused bis mother's pride ;
Who came to us in high disdain,

* And where's the face,' she cried,

• Has witched my boy to wish for one

So wretched for his wife?
Dost love thy husband ? Know, my son

Has sworn to seek his life.'

Her anger sore dismayed us,

For our mite was wearing scant, And, unless that dame would aid us,

There was none to aid our want. So I told her, weeping bitterly,

Wbat all our woes had been; And, though she was a stern ladie,

The tears stood in her een. And she housed us both, when, cheerfully,

My child to her had sworn,
That even if made a widow, she

Would never wed Kinghorn.”-
Here paused the nurse, and then began

The abbot, standing by:
“ Three months ago a wounded man

To our abbey came to die.
He heard ne long, with gbastly eyes

And hand obdurate clenched,
Speak of the worm that never dies,

And the fire that is not quenched.
At last by what this scroll attests

He left atonement brief,
For years of anguish to the breasts

His guilt had wrung with grief. “There lived,' he said, 'a fair young dame

Beneath my mother's roof;
I loved her, but against my flame

Her purity was proof.

I feigned repentance, friendship pure ;

That mood she did not check,
But let her husband's miniature

Be copied from her neck.
As means to search him, my deceit

Took care to him was borne
Nought but his picture's counterfeit,

And Jane's reported scorn.
The treachery took: she waited wild;

My slave came back and lied
Whate'er I wished; she clasped her child,

And swooned, and all but died.
I felt her tears for years and years

Quench not my flame, but stir: The very

hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her.. Fame told us of his glory, while

Joy flushed the face of Jane ;
And whilst she blessed his name, ber smile

Struck fire into my brain.
No fears could damp; I reached the camp,

Sought out its champion ;
And if my broadsword failed at last,

'Twas long and well laid on. This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn,

My foe's the Ritter Bann.'The wafer to his lips was borne,

And we shrived the dying man.
He died not till you went to fight

The Turks at Warradein;,
But I see my tale has changed you pale.”
The Abbot went for wine ;

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