He that me keptè from the false blame

While I was in the land amonges you,

He can me keep from harm and else from shame
In the salt sea, although I see not how;
As strong as ever he was, he is yet now;
In him trust I, and in his Mother dear;
That is to me my sail and eke my steer."

Her little child lay weeping in her arm;
And kneeling, piteously to him she said-
Peace, little son, I will do thee no harm."
With that, her kerchief off her head she braid,
And over his little eyen she it laid,

And in her arm she lulleth it full fast,
And into th' Heaven her eyen up she cast.

'Mother,' quod she, and maiden bright Mary!
Soth is that thorough woman's eggment
Mankind was lorn, and damned aye to die,
For which thy child was on a cross yrent;
Thy blissful eyen saw all his torment;
Then is there no comparison between
Thy woe, and any woe men may sustain.

Thou saw'st thy child yslain before thine eyen,
And yet now liveth my little child parfay :
Now, lady bright! to whom all woeful cryen,
Thou glory of womanhood, thou faire May!
Thou haven of refute, bright star of day!
Rue on my child, that of thy gentleness
Ruest on every rueful in distress.

'O little child; alas! what is thy guilt
That never wroughtest sin as yet, pardie?
Why will thy harde father have thee spilt ?
O mercy, deare Constable !' quod she,
'As let my little child dwell here with thee;
And if thou dar'st not saven him from blame
So kiss him ones in his father's name.'

Therewith she looketh backward to the land
And saide, Farewell, husband rutheless!'
And up she rose and walketh down the strand
Toward the ship; her followeth all the press.
And ever she prayeth her child to hold his peace,
And tak'th her leave, and with a holy intent
She blesseth her, and into the ship she went.

Victailled was the ship, it is no drede,
Abundantly for her a full long space;
And other necessaries that should need
She had enow,
heried be Godde's grace :

For wind and weather, Almighty God purchase,
And bring her home! I can no better say,

But in the sea she driveth forth her way.

It must be remembered that both the poet and his heroine were Roman Catholics, and that a Roman Catholic mother would naturally pray to the Virgin

for her child.

I could not help wondering, as my kind host and I stood together under that groined roof, whether any of the monks of Chaucer's day--for in Chaucer's time there was an ecclesiastical establishment at the bottom of the hill on whose foundation indeed, and probably comprising part of the walls, the beautiful mansion called the Priory now stands; I could not help wondering whether any of the monks of that day were as well suited to the old bard as its present master would undoubtedly have proved; and from wondering I got to wishing that four centuries could have been annihilated and Geoffrey Chaucer and John Hughes have been placed each in his own residence with only that beautiful winding up-hill road between them; neighbours hardly a mile apart. How they would have given each other legend for legend, tale for tale,

wisdom for wisdom, song for song, jest for jest! In his one great art Chaucer would of course have had the better-indeed of whom except of Shakespeare and Milton would he not? But my friend would have made it up in his infinite variety. To say nothing of the classical learning for which he has always been renowned, a scholar amongst scholars; does he not write and talk as a native nearly all the languages of Europe, all certainly that have a literature to tempt to the acquirement? Was not his "Provence and the Rhone" almost the only book ever praised in the "Waverley Novels?" Does not he contrive in his journals to make his pen do double duty as sketcher and writer? And are not those pen and ink drawings of his something astonishing for spirit and truth? Is he not also an artist in wood, embroidering his oaken wainscoats with every quirk and quiddity that comes into his head from a comic masque to an old English motto? Is he not such a reciter that he can make people laugh till they cry with his fun, and afraid to go to bed with his ghost stories? Can the very beasts of the field resist him? Did not he frighten me out of my wits, by calling around him all the wild cattle of Highclere from the box of his own carriage? Unhappy creatures! he enchanted them with his mimicry till they took him for one of themselves. Is there anything he cannot do? that is the fitter question. Cannot he, if he hears a German soldier in a barrack-yard singing an old song whilst polishing his musket, note down the air, retain the words, put them into English verse adapted to the tune, and sing it as heartily as the soldier could have done for the life of him? Did he

net do so by the ballad of "Prince Eugene," said to have been composed words and air by one of the Prince's old troopers, and long as popular in the German army as "Tom Bowling" or "Tom Tough amongst the British tars. Here is Mr. Hughes's

version :

Prince Eugene, our noble leader,
Made a vow in death to bleed, or

Win the Emperor back Belgrade:
"Launch pontoons, let all be ready
To bear our ordnance safe and steady
Over the Danube"-thus he said.

There was mustering on the border
When our bridge in marching order

Breasted first the roaring stream;
Then at Semlin, vengeance breathing,
We encamped to scourge the heathen

Back to Mahound and fame redeem.

'Twas on August one and twenty,
Scouts with glorious tidings plenty
Galloped in through storm and rain;
Turks they swore three hundred thousand
Marched to give our Prince a rouse, and
Dared us forth to battle-plain.

Then at Prince Eugene's head quarters
Met our fine old fighting Tartars,
Generals and Field-Marshalls all;

Every point of war debated,
Each in his turn the signal waited
Forth to march and on to fall.

For the onslaught all were eager
When the word sped round our leaguer :

"Soon as the clock chimes twelve to-night

Then bold hearts sound boot and saddle,
Stand to your arms and on to battle,

Every one that has hands to fight !"

Musqueteers, horse, yagers, forming
Sword in hand each bosom warming,
Still as death we all advance;
Each prepared come blows or booty
German-like to do our duty,

Joining hands in the gallant dance.

Our cannoneers, those tough old heroes
Struck a lusty peal to cheer us,

Firing ordnance great and small;
Right and left our cannon thundered
Till the Pagans quaked and wondered
And by platoons began to fall.

On the right like a lion angered
Bold Eugene cheered on the vanguard ;
Ludovic spurred up and down,
Crying "On, boys every hand to't,
Brother Germans nobly stand to't,

Charge them home for our old renown!"

Gallant Prince he spoke no more; he

Fell in early youth and glory

Struck from his horse by some curst ball:

Great Eugene long sorrowed o'er him,

For a brother's love he bore him,
Every soldier mourned his fall.

In Waradin we laid his ashes;
Cannon peals and musket flashes
O'er his grave due honours paid:
Then the old Black Eagle flying
All the Pagan powers defying

On we marched and stormed Belgrade.

Mr. Hughes was honoured with the friendship of Sir Walter Scott, and amongst the most valued treasures of the Priory is the last portrait ever taken of the great novelist.