Will that ancient feud be sped,
Brothers' blood by brothers shed?

--Land with freedom's struggle sore,
Land to whom thy children cling
With a lover's love and more,
Take the gentle gift we bring!
Pearl in thy crown royal set;
Scotland's other Margaret.

Margaret Tudor, daughter to Henry VII, married in 1502 to James IV, and
afterwards to Lord Angus, was thus great-grandmother on both sides to
James I of England.

_Gwynedd's child_; The Tudors intermarried with the old royal family of
North Wales, in whose pedigree occur the girl-names Gwenllian and
Angharad.

_Other Margaret_; Sister to Edgar the Etheling, and wife to Malcolm. Her
life and character are in contrast to the unhappy and unsatisfactory
career of Margaret Tudor, whom I have here only treated as at once
representing and uniting England, Scotland, and Wales.

LONDON BRIDGE

July 6: 1535

The midnight moaning stream
Draws down its glassy surface through the bridge
That o'er the current casts a tower'd ridge,
Dark sky-line forms fantastic as a dream;
And cresset watch-lights on the bridge-gate gleam,
Where 'neath the star-lit dome gaunt masts upbuoy
No flag of festive joy,
But blanching spectral heads;--their heads, who died
Victims to tyrant-pride,
Martyrs of Faith and Freedom in the day
Of shame and flame and brutal selfish sway.

And one in black array
Veiling her Rizpah-misery, to the gate
Comes, and with gold and moving speech sedate
Buys down the thing aloft, and bears away
Snatch'd from the withering wind and ravens' prey:
And as a mother's eyes, joy-soften'd, shed
Tears o'er her young child's head,
Golden and sweet, from evil saved; so she
O'er this, sad-smilingly,
Mangled and gray, unwarm'd by human breath,
Clasping death's relic with love passing death.

So clasping now! and so
When death clasps her in turn! e'en in the grave
Nursing the precious head she could not save,
Tho' through each drop her life-blood yearn'd to flow
If but for him she might to scaffold go:--
And O! as from that Hall, with innocent gore
Sacred from roof to floor,
To that grim other place of blood he went--
What cry of agony rent
The twilight,--cry as of an Angel's pain,--
_My father, O my father_! . . . and in vain!

Then, as on those who lie
Cast out from bliss, the days of joy come back,
And all the soul with wormwood sweetness rack,
So in that trance of dreadful ecstasy
The vision of her girlhood glinted by:--
And how the father through