O would to me some pitying Muse
A while her cheering aid impart!
'Tis sweet to sooth the pensive mind,
When sorrow's tear begins to start;
But vainly have I sought to twine
The wreath that shews a Poet's art:
Tho' weak my lays, in virtue's praise,
They yet may touch the feeling heart!

Now wou'd you know of the Black Baron?
His castle stands on the banks of Tyne;
Its walls are strong, and its dungeons deep,
In which the feeble are doom'd to pine:
And he has wagered a thousand merks,
As they sat drinking the blood--red wine.

Quoth he, ''Ere twelvemonths and a day,
The Rose of Corbye shall be mine!''
But woe unto thee, thou Black Baron!
May never maid to thee incline!

''I wager, ere twelvemonths and a day,
The Rose of Corbye sits in this hall;
Where I have had young, fair, and gay;
And tho' she fairer be than all,
I will not woo her for a bride;
Love shall not so this heart enthrall:
Who takes denial from womankind,
He, by my fay, deserves a fall!
Ah! little think'st thou, peerless Rose,
How soon life's cup I'll fill with gall!

''Who stoops to ladie, still she scorns;
Who gently woos her, woos in vain;
I would not ask her for a bride,
The wealth of worlds, if sure to gain;
I laugh at love, and ladie's frowns,
Neither can give this bosom pain:
Liv'd she in farthest Chrissendie,
I'd force her here, o'er land and main!

''For Love can wound, without a scar;
And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's ruthless storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main;
And he who bows to tyrant Love,
His freedom never can regain:
For Love can cause a thousand woes,
And Love's the source of endless pain;
Love's arrows pierce too many hearts,
But now he bends his bow in vain!

''The urchin, Love, with wily snares,
May lure the fondling beardless boy;
But soon he loads weak youth with cares,
And every bliss wou'd fain annoy:
Then why shall man bow to thy pow'r,
That health and peace will quick destroy?
--Ah! little think'st thou, ladie fair,
How soon I'll change thy cup of joy!''

Now he has gone to Tom o' Clint,
''O Tom! good Tom, do favor me!
Where Eden rowes to merry Carlyle,
There stands a castle, it's name Corbye:
Young Ellinor dwells in that castle,
The fairest fair in Chrissendie;
Her beauty wounds both lords and knights,
Go, force her here, I ask of thee:
I'll give thee house, I'll give thee land,
And gold and silver shall be thy fee!''

The Clint has sworn a solemn oath,
A solemn oath, most furiouslie,
''Gie' me thy hand, thou great Baron,
By th' blood that warmeth this bodie!
The proudest fair in a' Cumberland,
Shall suin be here, gif thy will it be!

''At thy command, the bonniest flow'r,
That bloometh in a' Chrissendie,
I'll mak her thine, but gin I fail,
The Clint will forfeit life to thee!

''For luive maks life a weary load;
And luive, alake! is hard to bide;
It gars man cla' a sairy pow,
To see a jilt, fuils ca' a bride;
And wae befa' the witless loon,
Wha tamely bows to woman's pride,
Better to hing on the gallows tree,
Than tak fause woman for a guide!
Here beats a heart, but ne'er for luive--
Now quick thy errand I will ride;
And ere to--morrow's sun gaes down,
I'll seat the ladie by thy side!''

The Clint he mounted the swiftest steed,
Regardless of the wintry show'r,
The tempest wild, the foaming flood,
He flew o'er mountain, moss, and moor;
Quick as an arrow from the bow,
By abbey, castle, hall, and tow'r;
And where Eden rowes to merry Carlyle,
He did espy a blooming flow'r;
Who should it be, but fair Ellinor,
As she was reading in her bow'r.

Ah! woe is me, that villain man
E'er seeks such virtue to devour;
Who parts with all the bliss of life,
For the false pleasures of an hour!
Forgetful of a future state,
And heedless of the Ruling Pow'r,
Whose goodness is for ever shewn
To monarch proud, or thoughtless boor!

The Clint he kneel'd down to the ground,
''Come, ladie fair, to the banks of Tyne!
The Black Baron lacketh thy companie;
His castles, lands, wull a' be thine:
At his command, I ride this errand,
While he sits drinking the bluid--red wine,
Wi' courteous lords, and walthy knights--
Say, ladie, shall his will be thine?''

The ladie started, as he spoke--
''Shall Ellinor to such deeds incline!
Go back! go back, vain is thy errand,
I never will to the banks of Tyne!
Where sits the murderer, the Black Baron,
Reflection drowning with madd'ning wine;
Where, daily in the dungeon deep,
The virtuous starve, and vainly pine--
Be it proud castle; from that foul place,
O God keep me! and God keep mine!''

The Clint he seiz'd her in his arms,
And she grew weak, and she grew pale--
''O where! O where art thou, young Dacre!
How little know'st thou what I ail!
O wert thou near me, gallant Dacre!
I need not thus my fate bewail!''
But all her struggles, sighs, and tears,
Alas! with him did nought avail!

Now when the Clint bound her lily hands,
She shrieked loud, and she shrieked long;
Her cries soon brought forth Andrew's Willie,
Right stout he was, I ween, and strong;
And with his staff, a full ell in length,
He has fell'd the Clint, the grass among:
''Ay sic a deeth may he die!'' quoth Willie,
''The loon wha con'd sic a ladie wrang!''

Next, he cut off the Clint's black head,
And hung it on the highest tree;
''There wad I hing ilka head,'' quoth Willie,
''O' th' man wha'd harm our guid ladie!''
The crows came east, the kites came west,
The hawks came fast as they cou'd flee;
They perch'd around the Clint's black head,
And Willie stared the sight to see;
But when they peck'd out the Clint's large eyes,
Loud Willie laugh'd, as tho' mad were he.

He has thrown the body into Eden deep;
''Troth! there's a ready--made grave for thee!
Thus wad I bury thousands mair,
Gin they sud harm our sweet ladie!
Deil tak a' sic black--hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!''

Now up the stream, and down the stream,
The twisted eels swam greedily;
And twined around the bleeding trunk,
Like gluttons feasting furiouslie:
And many a pike came darting forth,
Eager to taste the Clint's bodie;
And Willie stood on Eden's brink,
And loud he laugh'd the sight to see.
''Deil tak a' sic black--hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!''

He has driv'n the steed far from the castle;
O'er moor and mountain home flew he;
When the Black Baron the steed beheld,
I trow an angry man was he:
He call'd his clan, he vow'd revenge,
He made the table in flinders flee;
And he has sworn three solemn oaths,
That the Rose of Corbye his shall be.

''Who stoops to ladie, still she soorns;
Who gently woos her, woos in vain;
I would not ask her for a bride,
The wealth of worlds, if sure to gain.
A curse on Love, and ladie's frowns!
Neither can give this bosom pain;
Liv'd she in farthest Chrissendie,
I'd force her soon o'er land and main!

''Tho' Love can wound, without a scar,
And Love can bind without a chain,
His arrows pierce the coward's heart,
But now he bends his bow in vain.
What tho' mid Winter's thousand storms,
He wings his way o'er land and main;
Woe to the slave who bows to Love!
Freedom he never can regain.
Love sows the seeds of black despair
In mighty king, or silly swain;
But by the joys of life I prize,
Love ne'er shall give this bosom pain!''

''Dear Tom o' Clint! good Tom o' Clint!
Perish the wretch who murder'd thee!
Ere thrice the sun beams on this castle,
Now thrice I swear reveng'd to be!
Be who he will, the Baron's sword
Shall draw the blood from his foul bodie!
Tho' I command a fearless clan,
Dearest of all wert thou to me!''

As Ellinor sat in her gilded chamber,
Surrounded by her maidens gay,
There came a letter from the Dacre,
That he again must hunt that way;
And three times did she read that letter,
While blushes sweet did her thoughts betray.

And three times did she kiss that letter,
And place it near her bosom white;
But many a sigh that bosom heav'd,
For still the Dacre was in her sight.
Who would not cherish virtuous love?
Its joys are pure, its cares are light;
But who can say love's joys will last?
The fairest flow'r a storm may blight.

For love is oft a load of woe,
And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with every care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there:
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.

Now she has sent for Andrew's Willie,
And ordered him her swiftest steed;
And the three best cows that graze around,
And the three best fields wherein they feed:
And she has giv'n him twenty merks,
For they are good, in time of need;
Saying, ''There's a youth in Cumberland,
Will well reward thee for such a deed.''

Now Willie off his bonnet threw,
And down he sunk on his bended knee;
And Willie blush'd, and Willie star'd,
And Willie laughed the sight to see;
''I'd face the warl, and rejoice at deeth,
Were it to sairve our guid ladie!
The Deil waits a' black--hearted loons,
Wha glory in their crueltie!''
''Rise, Willie, rise,'' quoth fair Ellinor,
''What thou hast done, will remember'd be.''

Why looks the Dacre so wan and pale?
Alas! alas! how chang'd is he!
He cannot eat, he cannot drink,
He cannot sleep, or merry be!
Brown Adam whispers, ''Guid maister mine!
To see ye thus, sair grieveth me!
'Tis a' for love o' the Corbye Rose,
A hundred merks to ae penny!

Yes, love it causeth sleepless nights,
And love it causeth days of pain;
And when love robs us of our rest,
'Tis long ere we can rest again:
It makes a coward of the hero bold,
And binds him with a silken chain;
Time only can relief afford,
To struggle proves too oft in vain:
From palac'd prince, to vassal vile,
Mankind he tames, o'er earth and main.

''O woe is me!'' said the feeble mother,
''A--well--a--day! what ails my son!
Thou lookest like one sick at heart,
Or if thou had'st an ill deed done:
A medicine strong will give thee rest,
To Carlyle town, I'll send anon.
O luckless hour, thou left this hall!
A weary hunting thou hast gone!
And griev'd am I, to hear thee sigh;
Thy joys of life, alas! are done!'

''O chide me not, my good old mother!
O heed me not, I beg of thee!
Sick, sick at heart I am, I trow,
But an ill--doer I hate to see!
No med'cine healeth the wounded mind,
Nor can it bring relief to me;
For I must range both wood and wild,
Ere well again I can hope to be!''

Now with his comrades, one and all,
Young Dacre is a hunting gone;
The dogs were swift, and the sports were good,
But dogs or sport he heeded none,
Tho' bounding deer, and fox, and hare,
Ere noon they'd slain full many a one.
Pleas'd he espie'd the Corbye woods,
Just as the evening shades drew on;
And thrice he knock'd loud at the ring,
Where first his youthful heart was won.

Young Ellinor down from her maidens five,
Quick to the castle gate is gone;
And she has curtsey'd to young Dacre,
And bid them welcome, one by one.
She has giv'n to each the nut--brown ale,
To the young Dacre she gave none,
But a silver horn of the blood--red wine,
And a smile, such as his heart first won;
For fairer maid was never form'd,
I trow, to grace proud monarch's throne:
But one is more than monarch dear,
Her thoughts are fix'd on one alone.

Now thrice he kiss'd her lily hand,
And he has told her, with a sigh,
A tale as sweet as e'er lover told,
How, without her, he soon must die:
She lighted him to the fairest chamber,
Wherein the Dacre he might lie;
But the grey cock crew, and thrice he crew,
Love would not let him close an eye.

For when Love shoots his arrows keen,
The lazy hours pass slow away;
Toss'd on a sea, 'twixt hopes and fears,
Love claims the night, Love claims the day:
Love lends new joys, time quick destroys;
Love changes every month to May;
Love opes alike the proud palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay:
Love's arrows wound the world around,
From rosy youth, to age grown grey!

And love is like the opening rose,
When Phoebus ushers in the morn;
Tho' fragrant blooms this queen of flow'rs,
Its leaves conceal a piercing thorn:
As fades the rose, when the bleak blast blows,
So love is blighted by ladie's scorn!

And love is like a lily flow'r
And love is like a feverish dream;
A bitter draught it soon may turn,
Tho' now life's luxury supreme!

A prey to love, the Dacre lies;
No deeds of arms his soul delight;
For she is all his thoughts by day,
And she is all his thoughts by night:
On mountain, moor, in hall, or bower,
Fair Ellinor is in his sight:
And now to view her matchless form,
That captive led full many a knight,
Oft did he chide the ling'ring hours,
Oft did he wish for morning bright.

The gloomy night pac'd slow away,
At op'ning dawn the Dacre rose;
For who by Beauty captive led,
Can hope for peace, or soft repose?
Pleas'd he beheld fair Ellinor,
Whose eye sleep tried in vain to close;
He, sighing, sung a sonnet wild,
Love was the theme the hero chose.
SONG.
Welcome to man is gay Spring's returning;
Nature, ever beauteous, delights his view:
Dearer to this fond bosom, burning,
When that matchless grace I behold in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
This beating heart proves the Dacre true.

Blithe sings the lark, when he hails the morning,
Shaking from his wings the drops of dew;
Thus blithe am I, all others scorning,
Happy, happy still, when I gaze on you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
Your smile can bless the Dacre true.

Sweet bloom the flow'rs on the lap of Flora;
Rapt in fond delight, we behold each hue:
But the fairest flow'r on which beams Aurora,
Tho' stern Winter reigns, yet I see in you,
Dearest treasure!
Life's sole pleasure!
O look with pity on the Dacre true!
By love o'erpower'd, of speech bereft,
Fair Ellinor her chamber sought;
With frenzied gaze, the Dacre stood,
Now sooth'd by hope, now sunk in thought:
The languid look, the trembling frame,
The tortur'd mind avail'd him nought.

The Dacre gaz'd, the Dacre sigh'd,
With aching heart, and giddy head;
In vain he struggled to be free;
Life's pleasures all, alas! were fled:
Forgotten are the feats of youth,
When by his arm vain tyrants bled.--
Leave we the hero for a while,
By Love an easy captive led.

Yes! glory must to love give way;
The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow;
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
Who scorns the fairest of the fair,
May soon a captive be, I trow;
And he who was so bold of late,
A willing slave, sits sighing now.

The golden morn gleam'd o'er the hills;
The soaring lark did Phoebus call;
Whose gladsome rays illum'd the woods,
When the little Page look'd from the hall,
And mounted on a palfrey grey,
He spied a stranger, fierce and tall:
Dark was his visage, sunk his eyes,
And oft his steed was like to fall,
For he spurr'd, and spurr'd the wearied steed,
Until he came to the castle wall.

The weighty sword hung by his side,
And black the armour the stranger wore;
He lighted from his palfrey grey,
Whose sides were wet with purple gore:
With angry frown he gaz'd around;
The little Page was troubled sore;
And with the look of tyranny,
He ey'd the Page now o'er and o'er.

And he has said to the little Page,
''Sweet boy! do thou but hearken me;
Shew which chamber in this proud castle,
It is, were sleeps thy fair ladie.
I'm the Black Baron, of Northumberland,
And fain young Ellinor would see;
I'll make thee greater than a Page,
And gold and silver shall be thy fee!''

The Page he frown'd, the Page he laugh'd,
The Page he spake right angrily;
''Think'st thou my ladie I would betray,
For all the gold in Chrissendie!
No!--Know, Black Baron, my ladie's love,
Is dearer, far, than gold to me:
And woe awaits the luckless fair,
Who wares a look of love on thee!''

The Baron took a silver whistle,
And thrice he blew, both loud and clear,
When one score men, and two score men
Did quickly by his side appear;
And he has said to the little Page,
''Thy proud reply, boy, shall cost thee dear:
Thy aid to me, do but quickly lend,
And thou thro' life hast nought to fear.''

The Page he laugh'd, the Page he frown'd,
The Page he spake right angrily;
''My ladie hates thee, thou Black Baron,
As I do thy gold, and thy silver fee!
For wander east, or wander west,
The widow's curse still follows thee!
Who such a tyrant gives her hand,
But binds herself to slaverie!
There is a squire within this castle,
A match for thee and thy companie!''

The Page he spake, but he spake no more;
For, Oh! his life was at an end!
''Take, take thee that!'' quoth an angry loon,
''Poor noisy worm! it will thee mend!
Or man, or boy, who thus speaks our Baron,
To heav'n, or hell, his soul I'll send!''

The Dacre from his window saw
The bloody deed; quick down he came;
''Now rise! now rise! my comrades all!
Brown Adam! Andrew! Dick o' Graeme!
Rise Johnstons! Armstrongs! and the Shaws!
And all the rest that I could name;
Rise! try your swords, that never fail'd,
Fair Ellinor your help doth claim;
And curs'd be he who will not rise,
To save from harm an injur'd dame!''

When each had sworn to kill or die,
The Dacre opened the castle gate,
And he has said to the Black Baron,
''Thy strength I scorn! thy deeds I hate!
Who stains his sword with virtue's gore,
Will sore repent, when 'tis too late!

''Come on! come on! man to his man!
Methinks it loss of time to wait;
We fight the cause of a ladie fair,
And for the rest, we trust to fate!''

The first who fell was the Black Baron;
For the Dacre cleft his head in twain:
Soon, of his luckless threescore men,
Full forty on the ground lay slain:
The rest sunk down; from many a wound
The crimson tide pour'd out amain;
Each look'd on Dacre, with a sigh,
A brave man's mercy proud to gain.

''Spare! spare, and pity!'' quoth the Dacre,
''No more their gore our swords shall stain;
And may he who fights for a good ladie,
Ne'er fear a foe, nor fight in vain!

''The wounded gently bear to the hall,
For need of help, I trow, have they;
And some a grave dig wide and deep,
And in it soon these dead men lay:
The mangled corse of the Black Baron,
Quick to his castle we will convey;
And give due thanks to the King of kings,
For favors he hath shewn this day!''

And Andrew's Willie, he was there,
And loud he laugh'd, the sight to see;
And fain the corse of the Black Baron
He would have hung on the highest tree,
Or thrown it into Eden deep,
A feast for eels and pikes to be.
The Dacre gave him a well--lin'd purse,
For saving of our good ladie;
And he has join'd the Dacre's clan,
And a merry wight long may he be!

Now stepped forth ladie Ellinor,
The bloody fray she had trembling seen;
And she has knelt most fervently,
And thanked heav'n, with uplifted een:
The Dacre bending o'er her, sigh'd,
And rais'd her, with a courteous mien.

From her fair finger she took a ring,
And gave it the Dacre, with kisses three,
Saying, ''For the deed thine arm hath done,
The Lord of Corbye, thou shalt be.''
But when she saw her lifeless Page,
A sorrie ladie, I trow was she:
''A--lack--a--day! my faithful boy!
A Page so true, I ne'er hope to see!''
She hung her head, pale grew her cheek,
And many a tear fell from her e'e.

She has giv'n the Dacre her lily hand,
And her lands that lay both far and wide;
Again the red blooms on his cheeks,
When he beholds so fair a bride:
For she seem'd an angel, and no woman,
With her maidens seated by her side;
And fain will be the feeble mother,
To hear what luck did her son betide.

Who would not cherish virtuous love,
Its joys are pure, its cares are light;
But who can say love's joys will last,
The fairest flow'r a storm may blight:

For love is like a lily flow'r;
And love is like a feverish dream;
A bitter draught it soon may prove,
Tho' now life's luxury supreme!

Now one by one the Dacre's clan
Were welcomed into the hall,
Where the tables groan'd with dainty fare,
And blithe and merry, I trow were all:
And old Grey Graeme, in his garb of green,
Who still was ready at our ladie's call,
Now with his harp was seated near,
And loudly sang the Black Baron's fall;
Whilst the castle echoed their revelrie,
Till the grey cock thrice did on them call.

How eager sits his good old mother,
Young Dacre watching, from tower high;
And many with their children look,
''They suin wull come!'' oft do they cry.
They gaze along the woody glen,
And over the hill, with eager eye,
When swift and swifter o'er the moor,
Foremost they see the Dacre fly.

''O God be prais'd!'' says the feeble mother,
''I count them all in safety nigh!
And on grey palfrey array'd in white,
Methinks an angel I espy!''

And when she kiss'd the Dacre's bride,
She dropp'd an aged mother's tear;
And when they told of what had pass'd,
Rejoic'd was she, the tale to hear:
''Thrice happy day!'' quoth the feeble mother,
''That gave my son a dame so dear!''
''Thrice happy day!'' quoth the Dacre's clan,
''When man to man, we knew no fear!''

Now safe arriv'd on the banks of Lyne,
A father, mother, wife, they see,
And there they drink the nut--brown ale,
And tell their feats, with merry glee:
For man to man, ne'er a border clan
Cou'd fight the Dacre, and his companie.

He has to each brave comrade giv'n
Both gold and silver, for a fee;
But may the penny ne'er cross his purse,
Who will not fight for a good ladie!
And he whose heart is sunk in love,
I wish him soon from trouble free!

For Love can wound without a scar;
And Love can bind without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain,
For the greatest trial man endures,
Is lovely woman's cold disdain!

By day and night, Love wings his flight
O'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
He bends his bow, to wound the heart
Of monarch proud, and lowly swain,
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Will freedom give, and banish pain!

O may this tale of former days
But cheat the bosom of a sigh,
How pleas'd will be the unknown Bard,
Who boasteth not of minstrelsy!
Tho' weak the tones of his broken harp,
And he in song with few can vie,
Fain would he sing in virtue's praise,
And dry the tear from sorrow's eye;
Tho' poverty hath bow'd him low,
And the wise and wealthy pass him by.