A TALE.
Where Snowdon's bleak summits their shadows throw wide,
Once the castle of Modred arose;
Frowning dark as the mountain that towered at its side,
The rage of the tempest or war it defied,
Sternly mocking its impotent foes.
Far below, in the humblest simplicity drest,
A lone cottage appeared in the dell;
Yet the dwelling so lowly could boast of a guest,
Who a passion had kindled in Modred's fierce breast,
Which his pride vainly strove to repel.

In the gay crowded city in vain would ye seek
Than Bertha, a more lovely maid;
The clear rose of health brightly glowed on her cheek,
While her eyes' radiant beams with true eloquence speak,
And of lover's fond gaze seem afraid.
But no answering fondness his love did repay,
Bertha listened with scorn to his tale;
'Twas for Edmund she sighed, ah ! how long seemed the day,
When the toils of the hunter had called him away,
Till at eve he returned to the vale.
For affection still prompted the soft-heaving sigh,
And to both its enchantments were dear;

'Twas love spoke in the glance of his soul beaming eye;
The blood was seen mantling, her cheek painted high,
When his voice or his name met her ear.
But the magic dissolves at his country's command,
Though its claims gentle Bertha withstood.
Lo ! the banner of Edward waves dark o'er the land,
And the genius of Cambria bows to that hand
Which is stained with her sons' dearest blood.
And could Edmund remain in inglorious repose?
No- the morrow will see him depart:
Soon the spear and the shield of the warrior he chose,
While his blood's crimson current more rapidly flows
As bright visions of fame filled his heart.

Dreams he oft had indulged, whilst unheeded flew time,
'Midst the mountain's wild scenery thrown,
Nursed in Nature's deep solitude, nought could confine
That spirit, which grasping achievements sublime,
Courts by deeds of high daring, renown.
What awakened sensations so keenly refined ?
The soft voice of Love could it be ?
No- the bright flash of glory inflamed his proud mind,
Bade it spurn the base chain which Oppression would bind
Round the soul Nature formed to be free.
Wealth or power in his bosom no wish could inspire,
He sought not the splendor they give;

But for glory he sighed, 'twas his only desire,
And he felt in the blaze he would rather expire,
Than in humble security live.
'Let honour,' he cried, 'but distinguish my name,
'And when life's fleeting moments are o'er,
'May for ever it shine in the annals of fame,
'Let heroes unborn its record inflame
'Bright and lasting, till time is no more.'
He ceased, for a tear hung on Bertha's soft cheek
Of mingled resentment and love;
'Are my claims then,' she cried, 'are thy vows then so weak!
'Other praises than mine art thou eager to seek,
'And oh ! far from my cottage to rove !

'Ah ! how trifling this pageant of glory appears,
'True bliss it can never impart;
''Tis domestic affection our being endears,
'With tremulous lustre it shines through the tears
'Which rise gentle and pure from the heart.
'And have then for thee these emotions no charms ?
'Then go, and may conquest be thine;
'Yet at eve when I meet thee, oh! throw by those arms,
'The fierce pomp of war fills my breast with alarm,
'In the hunter's green vest thou art mine.'
How destructive that wish to the ill-fated pair!
For concealed by the rock where they stood,

Dark Modred had heard it, and vowed in despair,
That the bright star of love, which then glittered so fair,
Should be quickly extinguished in blood.
Soon he chose from his vassals the murderous band
Commissioned to strike the dire blow;
For he shrunk from the danger he yet dared command,
Bold only in planning that death which his hand
Wanted courage to deal to his foe.
'When the shadows of evening shall rest on the main,
'And its blue mists the mountain tops shroud,
'You will see them,' he cried, 'as they meet on the plain;

'Then let vengeance be mine; when the peasant is slain,
'Let the horn be thrice sounded aloud.'
Wan and pale rose the moon o'er the mountain of snow,
Shrilly whistled the wind o'er the heath;
Modred listens appalled- soon the wild shriek of woe
With the hollow blast mingles, then sinks moaning low,
Whilst the horn gives the signal of death.
''Tis done,' he exclaimed, 'and the victim is found;
'My vassals obey my command.'
But what fear shook his frame, when the soul-thrilling sound,

The shrill blast of the horn was thrice echoed around
And the cold grasp of death chilled his hand.
With terror he turned, and strange fear seized his breast,
When he saw, by the moon's streaming light,
Pale and bleeding the form he had learned to detest,
Young Edmund arrayed in the hunter's green vest,
And the maid at his side robed in white.
For a moment he gazed, fixed with maddening affright,
The life-stream froze fast round his heart;
Then, starting in horror, he flies from the sight,
While behind a dark cloud the moon curtained her light,
And no ray to his path would impart.

Now storms rock the mountain; his heart shook with dread,
No courage his bosom inspires;
For joined with the thunder that bursts o'er his head,
Strange voices are heard, while the shades of the dead
Dimly glide through the lightning's pale fires.
In vain would he fly- still the vision pursues;
Still he hears the wan spectres complain;
From the rock's rugged cliff the wide ocean he views,
And each terror-fraught image determined to lose,
Fiercely plunged in the wild roaring main.
Horror broods o'er the spot where lies buried his form,
Rending tempests still vex the white wave;

Wild it foams o'er the breast which no pity could warm,
While spirits, unblest, in the pause of the storm,
Howl loud o'er the murderer's grave.