joy;
And again o'er the slumberer's couch he bows
Till, slowly, those peaceful lids unclose,--
When, long, with heavenward-fixed gaze,
With lowly prayer and grateful praise,
The aged man, from death reprieved,
His bosom of its joy relieved.--

Then did Romara thus address
His gray guest, in his reverendness:

"Now, man of prayer come tell to me
Some spell of thy holy mystery!
Some vision hast had of the Virgin bright,--
Or message, conveyed from the world of light,
By the angels of love who in purity stand
'Fore the throne of our Lord in the heavenly land?

"I hope, when I die, to see them there:
For I love the angels so holy and fair:
And often, I trust, my prayer they greet
With smiles, when I kneel and kiss their feet
In the missal, my mother her weeping child gave,
But a day or two ere she was laid in the grave.

"Sage man of prayer, come tell to me
What holy shapes in sleep they see
Who love the blest saints and serve them well!
I pray thee, sage man, to Romara tell,
For a guerdon, thy dreams,--sith, to me thou hast said
No thanks that I rescued thy soul from the dead."

But, when the aged man arose
And met Romara's wistful eye,--
What accents shall the change disclose
That marked his visage, fearfully?--
From joy to grief and deepest dole,
From radiant hope to dark presage
Of future ills beyond control--
Hath passed, the visage of the sage.

"Son of an honoured line, I grieve,"
Outspake the reverend seer,
"That I no guerdon thee can give
But words of woe and fear!--
Thy sun is setting!--and thy race,
In thee, their goodly heir,
Shall perish, nor a feeble trace
Their fated name declare!--
Thy love is fatal: fatal, too,
This act of rescue brave--
For, him who from destruction drew
My life, no arm can save!"

He said,--and took his lonely way
Far from Romara's towers.--
His fateful end from that sad day
O'er Torksey's chieftain lowers:--
Yet, vainly, in his heart a shrine
Hope builds for love,--with faith;--
Alas! for him with frown malign
Waiteth the grim king Death!

FYTTE THE THYRDE.

Plantagenet hath dungeons deep
Beneath his castled halls;--
Plantagenet awakes from sleep
To count his dungeoned thralls.

Alone, with the torch of blood-red flame,
The man of blood descends;
And the fettered captives curse his name,
As th