istress!

Yet, was the deed so meekly done,--
His guerdon seemed so fairly won,--
The tribute he to beauty paid
So deeply all believed deserved,--
That nought of blame Sir Wilfrid said,
Though much his thoughts from meekness swerved.

Impatience, soon, their faces tell
To hear the song of woodman Snell,
Among the festive crew;
And, soon, their old and honest frere,
Elated by the good Yule cheer,
In untaught notes, but full and clear,
Thus told his heart-thoughts true:--

The Woodman's Song.

I would not be a crowned king,
For all his gaudy gear;
I would not be that pampered thing,
His gew-gaw gold to wear:
But I would be where I can sing
Right merrily, all the year;
Where forest treen,
All gay and green,
Full blythely do me cheer.

I would not be a gentleman,
For all his hawks and hounds,--
For fear the hungry poor should ban
My halls and wide-parked grounds:
But I would be a merry man,
Among the wild wood sounds,--
Where free birds sing,
And echoes ring
While my axe from the oak rebounds.

I would not be a shaven priest,
For all his sloth-won tythe:
But while to me this breath is leased,
And these old limbs are lithe,--
Ere Death hath marked me for his feast,
And felled me with his scythe,--
I'll troll my song,
The leaves among,
All in the forest blythe.

* * * * *

"Well done, well done!" bold Thorold cried,
When the woodman ceased to sing;
"By'r Lady! it warms the Saxon tide
In our veins to hear thee bring
These English thoughts so freely out!
Thy health, good Snell!"--and a merry shout
For honest boldness, truth, and worth,
The baron's grateful guests sent forth.

Silence like grave-yard air, again,
Pervades the festive space:
All list for another minstrel strain;
And the youth, with merrier face,
But tender notes, thus half-divulged
The passion which his heart indulged:--

The Minstrel's Song.

O choose thou the maid with the gentle blue eye,
That speaketh so softly, and looketh so shy;
Who weepeth for pity,
To hear a love ditty,
And marketh the end with a sigh.

If thou weddest a maid with a wide staring look,
Who babbleth as loud as the rain-swollen brook,
Each day for the morrow
Will nurture more sorrow,--
Each sun