"The Ancram Moor is red with gore, many a Southern fell;

"For

"And Buccleuch has charged us evermore,

"To watch our beacons well."—

The Lady blush'd red, but nothing she said,

Nor added the Baron a word;

Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair,

And so did her moody Lord.

In sleep the Lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said,

"The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep,

"It cannot give up the dead.".

It was near the ringing of matin bell,
The night was well nigh done,
When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,
On the eve of good St. John.

The Lady look'd through the chamber fair,
By the light of a dying flame,

And she was aware of a knight stood there,
Sir Richard of Coldinghame.

-"Alas! away! away!"-she cried, "For the holy Virgin's sake.”.

Lady, I know who, sleeps by thy side;
But, Lady, he will not awake.

By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, "In bloody grave have I lain;

"The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,

66

But, Lady, they're said in vain.

By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, "Most foully slain I fell,

"And my restless sprite on the beacon height "For a space is doom'd to dwell.

"At our trysting-place,* for a certain space,

"I must wander to and fro;

"But I had not had power to come to thy bower "Had'st thou not conjured me so."—.

Love master'd fear-her brow she cross'd;
How, Richard, hast thou sped?

"And art thou saved, or art thou lost?"

The vision shook his head!

*

Trysting-place, Scottish for place of rendezvous.

.“Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; "So bid thy Lord believe : "And lawless love is guilt above; "This awful sign receive."—

He laid his left hand on an oaken stand, His right hand on her arm:

The Lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For the touch was fiery warm.

The sable score of fingers four
Remain on that board impress'd,

And for evermore that Lady wore
A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Melrose bower

Ne'er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Dryburgh tower,

He speaketh word to none.

That nun who ne'er beholds the day, That monk who speaks to none, That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron.

No. XXII.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

GERMAN..

-WALTER SCOTT.

This Ballad is translated (but with such alterations and additions, that it may almost be called original) from the fragment of a Romance, sung in Goethe's Opera of "Claudina von Villa Bella."

FREDERICK leaves the land of France,

Homewards hastes his steps to measure;

Careless casts the parting glance

On the scene of former pleasure;

Joying in his prancing steed,

Keen to prove his untried blade,

Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead
Over mountain, moor, and glade.

Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn,

Lovely Alice wept alone;

Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn,

Hope, and

peace, and honour flown.

Mark her breast's convulsive throbs! See, the tear of anguish flows! Mingling soon with bursting sobs, Loud the laugh of frenzy rose.

Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd;
Seven long days and nights are o'er ;

Death in pity brought his aid,
As the village bell struck four.

Far from her, and far from France, Faithless Frederick onward rides, Marking blythe the morning's glance Mantling o'er the mountain's sides.

Heard ye not the boding sound,
As the tongue of yonder tower,

Slowly, to the hills around,

Told the fourth, the fated hour?

Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,

Yet no cause of dread

appears;

Bristles high the rider's hair,

Struck with strange mysterious fears.