And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull.
Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear,
And echoed around both far and near;
It is Sir Ronald from Palestine--
Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline.
"I have come," said he, "through pain and peril,
To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl:
Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan,
Who slew our most gallant capitan!
Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour,
Fell wounded before High Salem's tower,
And ere he died he commissioned me
To bear to Scotland, and give to thee,
This bit of the genuine haly rood
Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood,
That thou mightst give it to Etheline,
As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine."

IV.

All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere,
The ancient elms seem withered and bare,
The river asleep in its rushy bed,
The waters are green, and the grass is red,
The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers,
Where oft in the dewy evening hours,
Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell,
And the merle was singing her day-farewell,
The Lady Etheline would recline
And think of her dear Sir Peregrine:
All was cheerless now, forlorn,
As if they missed her at early morn;
At noontide and at evening fall
They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.

In the solary, up in the western wing,
The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing
For one so young, so gentle, and fair,
Their only child, lying ailing there,
Waning and waning slowly away,
Yet waxing more beautiful every day,
As if she were drawing from spheres above,
Before she got there, the spirit of love,
Which shone as a light through the silken lire,
Pure as was that of the vestal fire;
And ever she kissed in hysterical mood
The bit of the cross all red with blood.
"Oh mother dear! I wish--I fear
The time of my going is drawing near:
Last night, at the mirk and midnight hour,
A voice seemed to come through my chamber door--
For the ear of the dying is tender and fine--
And three times it sounded Etheline;
And it is true, as I've heard say,
Such voices are calls to come away--
The voices of angels hovering near,
Who wish us to join them in yonder sphere."
"Oh! no, oh! no, my own dear child,
Thine overfine ears have thee beguiled:
It was the Yerl, when in a dream,
Who three times called thy dear-loved name;
I heard the call as awake I lay,
And thou mayst believe what now I say."

"Oh mother! oh mother! what do I hear?
It is the nightingale singing clear;
I have heard the notes in Italian clime,
And remember them since that