for his son in
vain, the last suppliant to arrive is his son's bride:

A lady here, by a dark steed brought,
Sister Helen,
So darkly clad I saw her not.
"See her now or never see aught,
Little brother!"
(_O Mother, Mary Mother_,
_Whit more to see, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair,
Sister Helen,
On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair."
"Blest hour of my power and her despair,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow,
Sister Helen,
'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago."
"One morn for pride and three days for woe,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!)

"Her clasp'd hands stretch from her bending head,
Sister Helen;
With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed."
"What wedding-strains hath her bridal bed,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven?)

"She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon,
Sister Helen,--
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon."
"Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!)

"They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow,
Sister Helen,
And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow."
"Let it turn whiter than winter snow,
Little brother!"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!)

Besides these there are two new stanzas, one going before, and the other
following after, the six stanzas quoted, but as the scattered passages
involve no farther incident, and are rather of interest as explaining
and perfecting the idea here expressed, than valuable in themselves, I
do not reprint them.

I think it must be allowed, by fit judges, that nothing more subtly
conceived than this incident can be met with in English poetry, though
something akin to it was projected by Coleridge in an episode of his
contemplated _Michael Scott_. It is--in the full sense of an abused
epithet--too weird to be called picturesque. But the crowning merit of
the poem still lies, as I h