death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed from the
parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you shall hear the legend."
And in a strange sepulchral tone, not inappropriate, however, to his
subject, Peter chanted the following ballad:

THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE

Amid the grove o'er-arched above with lime-trees old and tall
--The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood's ancient hall--,
High o'er the rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky,
And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously.

Seven yards its base would scarce embrace--a goodly tree I ween,
With silver bark, and foliage dark, of melancholy green;
And mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year,
Their black brood hatch--their black brood watch--then screaming
disappear.

In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh,
Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry;
And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend boughs among,
Sad wailing moans, like human groans, the concert harsh prolong.

But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,
By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed;
A verdant bough--untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath--
To Rookwood's head an omen dread of fast-approaching death.

Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power.
Like 'larum bell Death's note to knell at Fate's appointed hour;
While some avow that on its bough are fearful traces seen,
Red as the stains from human veins, commingling with the green.

Others, again, there are maintain that on the shattered bark
A print is made, where fiends have laid their scathing talons dark;
That, ere it falls, the raven calls thrice from that wizard bough;
And that each cry doth signify what space the Fates allow.

In olden days, the legend says, as grim Sir Ranulph view'd
A wretched hag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood.
His bloodhounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase;
Was never seen in forest green, so fierce, so fleet a race!

With eyes of flame to Ranulph came each red and ruthless hound,
While mangled, torn--a sight forlorn!--the hag lay on the ground;
E'en where she lay was turned the clay, and limb and reeking bone
Within the earth, with ribald mirth, by Ranul