He staggering reeled, then tumbling down A lump of breathless clay :

"So fall my foes!" quoth valiant Rose,
And stately strode away.

Through the green-wood he quickly hiea,
Unto Lord Buchan's hall;
And at Matilda's window stood,

For I have slain fierce Donald Graeme;
His blood is on my sword:
And distant are my faithful men,
Nor can assist their lord.

To Skye I'll now direct my way,
Where my two brothers bide,
And raise the valiant of the Isles,
To combat by my side."

"O do not so," the maid replies;
"With me till morning stay;
For dark and dreary is the night,
And dangerous the way

All night I'll watcn you in the park;

My faithful page

I'll send,

To run and raise the Ross's clan,

Their master to defend."

Beneath a bush he laid him down,
And wrapt him in his plaid;
While, trembling for her lover's fate,
At distance stood the maid.

Swift ran the page o'er hill and dale,

Till, in a lonely glen,

He met the furious Sir John Graeme,
With twenty of his men.

"Where goest thou, little page?" he said

"So late who did thee send?"

"I go to raise the Ross's clan,

"For he hath slain Sir Donald Graeme; His blood is on his sword: And far, far distant are his men,

That should assist their lord."

"And has he slain my brother dear?"
The furious Graeme replies;
"Dishonour blast my name, but he
By me, ere morning, dies!

"Tell me, where is Sir James the Rose; I will thee well reward."

"He sleeps into Lord Buchan's park ; Matilda is his guard."

They spurred their steeds in furious mood, And scoured along the lee;

They reacht Lord Buchan's lofty towers, By dawning of the day.

Matilda stood without the gate;

To whom the Graeme did say,

"Saw ye Sir James the Rose last night? Or did he pass this way?"

"Last day, at noon,

"Matilda said,

"Sir James the Rose past by: He furious prickt his sweaty steed, And onward fast did hie.

"By this he is at Edinburgh, If horse and man hold good." "Your page, then, lied, who said he was Now sleeping in the wood."

She wrung her hands, and tore her hair;
"Brave Rose thou art betrayed;
And ruined by those means," she cried,
"From whence I hoped thine aid!"

By this the valiant knight awoke ;
The virgin's shrieks he heard ;
And up he rose and drew his sword,
Whence the fierce band appeard.

"Your sword last night my brother slew ; His blood yet dims its shine:

And, ere the setting of the sun,
Your blood shall reek on mine."

"You word it well," the chief replied;
"But deeds approve the man:
Set by your band, and hand to hand,
We'll try what valour can.

"Oft boasting hides a coward's heart;
My weighty sword you fear,
Which shone in front of Flodden-field,
When you kept in the rear."

With dauntless step he forward strode,
And dared him to the fight:

But Graeme gave back, and feared his arm;
For well he knew its might.

Four of his men, the bravest four,
Sank down beneath his sword:
But still he scorned the poor revenge,
And sought their haughty lord.

Behind him basely came the Graeme,
And pierced him in the side:
Out spouting came the purple tide,
And all his tartans dyed.

But yet his sword quat not the grip,
Nor dropt he to the ground,

Till through his enemy's heart his steel
Had forced a mortal wound.

Graeme, like a tree with wind o'erthrown,
Fell breathless on the clay;
And down beside him sank the Rose,
And faint and dying lay.

The sad Matilda saw him fall:

"O! spare his life!" she cried;

"Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life; Let her not be denied !"

Her well-known voice the hero heard;
He raised his death-closed eyes,
And fixt them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies:

"In vain Matilda begs the life,
By death's arrest denied:

My race is run-adieu, my love" —

The sword, yet warm, from his left side
With frantic hand she drew:

"I come, Sir James the Rose," she cried; "I come to follow you!"

She leaned the hilt against the ground,
And bared her snowy breast;

Then fell upon her lover's face,
And sank to endless rest.

[This ballad was written by Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dromore in Ireland; a poet and a man of taste,' says Sir Walter Scott, (Minstrelsy,' i. 44, &c.,) who, commanding access to the individuals and institutions which could best afford him materials for executing the task of collecting and illustrating ancient popular poetry,g ave the public the result of his researches in a work entitled Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' (London, 1765); a work which must always be held among the first of its class in point of merit, and which the taste with which the materials were chosen, the extreme felicity with which they were illustrated, the display at once of antiquarian knowledge and classical reading which the collection indicated, render it difficult to imitate, and impossible to excel.' How deeply indebted to the 'learned and amiable prelate's, work the present collection is, the reader of it does not require to be reminded. It was not merely as a collector and illustrator, however, a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff,' that the doctor excelled: for in the actual imitation of the ancient ballad,' says the great authority already quoted, 'he was eminently successful. The Hermit of Warkworth, and other minstrel tales of his composition, must always be remembered with fondness by those who have perused them in that period of life when the feelings are strong, and the taste for poetry, especially of this simple nature, is keen and poignant. The ballad was first published in 1771, under the title, The Hermit of Warkworth. A Northumberland Ballad. In three Fits or Cantos.' London; 4to; from which edition it is here taken. It was accompanied with an Introduction and Notes, such parts of which as are necessary to the understanding, or pertinent in illustrating it, will be found in the Notes.]

ARK was the night, and wild the storm,
And loud the torrent's roar;

And loud the sea was heard to dash