Poems.

REGINALD the BRAVE.

Bright smiles the face of bucksome day, And merry bells their changes ring ; But who is he in trim so gay, Whose looks are glad as jocund Spring ?

Oh ! tis the Lord of Ettrick Tow'r, 'Tis Reginald the young, and brave, Of chivalry the brightest flow'r, Of conqu'ring Love the lowliest slave.

And who is she whose gentle mien, Might lull to rest the tempest's rage ? Whose form is that of Beauty's Queen, Whose looks must ev'ry heart engage.

Oh ! 'tis the Rose of Ettrick's vale, Of Ettrick vale the boast and pride, And so at least relates my tale Of Reginald the blushing bride.

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And now, twelve moons their course had run, Again Spring shew'd her merry face, In Ellen's form each rising sun Beheld some new and finish'd grace.

And ev'ry morn that gaily smil'd, Beheld of joy the deep'ning bloom ; Thus does the flow'ret of the wild, Each morn encrease its rich perfume.

How shall I paint those days of love, How paint the hours that rapture gave ! And sing thro' all the list'ning grove, Of Reginald the young and brave.

Alas ! the hour of grief is near ! Hark to the clarion‐sounds of War ! Behold the shield, the quiv'ring spear, The crimson banners wave afar.

And listen to the mournful sigh, That bursts from Ellen's trembling breast ; And view the melting tearful eye, That fears on Reginald to rest !

Affrighted Joy his home forsakes, And clouds of sadness 'gin to low'r ; For now the trumpet's clangour shakes The mouldring walls of Ettrick Tower.

“Ah ! check, my Love, those bursting sighs, And brush away that falling tear ; To‐morrow's sun will brightly rise And bring thy faithful lover here.

When, that the field of blood I seek, When thick the deadly arrows fly ; I'll think upon that mantling cheek, I'll muse upon that speaking eye.

I'll ponder o'er each touching charm That plays around that angel‐face ; Those thoughts shall nerve with strength my arm, Those thoughts shall ev'ry sinew brace.

Then smile, my Love, my Ellen dear ! No longer droop that beauteous head, To‐morrow's sun will see me here, I shall not fall in Honour's bed.

Or, if the winged mortal dart, The dart of death should lay me low ; It must not break that gentle heart, It must not cause those tears to flow.

Weep not if Fate my youth should doom, To share the exit of the brave ! In other worlds our love shall bloom, We meet again beyond the grave.

But let me clasp that form once more, That form of grace the fair abode, And let that voice its nectar pour, Sweeter than e'er from zephyr flow'd.

Yet turn away that mad'ning glance, And oh ! of grief restrain the flood :” He said,­and couch'd his quiv'ring lance, Then quickly sought the field of blood.

While Ellen's eager, hopeless gaze, Bent on his track for many an hour ; E'en till the Sun's declining rays, Were fading fast from Ettrick Tow'r.

O'er many a hill, and many a plain, The valiant Knight his course pursu'd, And ev'ry vassal in his train Seem'd with a lion's strength endued.

Now mantling morn had ting'd the sky, And bade the mountain‐breeze awake ; And flow'rs of ev'ry scent and die, Seem'd of her freshness to partake.

Uprose the Sun in bright array, To pour around his dazzling flood ; Yet not as wont, for on that day, He seem'd, alas ! to rise in blood.

How fearful shriek'd the trumpet's blast ! Quick answer'd by the angry foe ; On, on they pour'd, in columns vast, To strike the dread contending blow.

Who is yon Knight of noble form, Whose sable plumes majestic wave ? Who seems to court the battle's storm, 'Tis Reginald the young and brave.

See, rich in ev'ry manly charm, How conqu'ring glories round him flame ! Each time he lifts his potent arm, He calls upon his Ellen's name.

And oh ! that name, that magic spell Will surely ward the mortal dart ! Tho' Death may pour his arrows fell, They shall not reach that noble heart.

But view yon chief of haughty mien, With nodding plumes of crimson die ; Disdain upon his brow is seen, And fury sparkles in his eye.

Now does he couch his quiv'ring lance, And onward spur his nimble steed ; Proud o'er the plain 'tis seen to prance, As if to share the val'rous deed.

Soon did the rival Knights engage ; Long, long and bloody was the fight : And who shall tell their looks of rage, And who shall paint their blows of might.

Now hast'ning from the forest gloom, A comely page appear'd in view, Just as the Knight with crimson plume The valiant Reginald o'erthrew.

Now does he aim the deadly blow Intended for the prostrate breast ; Ah ! Reginald shall die! ­ but no­ It lays another soul to rest.

Alas ! 'tis Ellen's faithful heart, That feels the icy hand of Death : Now from her cheek the smiles depart, Now steals away the balmy breath.

She came disguis'd in man's attire, To guard the safety of her Love ; Unmov'd she stood the battle's fire, Her matchless worth and faith to prove.

But can his widow'd heart yet glow ? Ah no ! for ever is it still,­ No more to feel misfortune's throe, No more to prove the lovesome thrill.

Now in the green and shelter'd vale, Where peeps the vi'let's purple eye, Oft does the wild and moaning gale, Delight near Ellen's grave to sigh.

And those dark Yews that shade the plains, Still do they love their boughs to wave, Where calmly sleep the cold remains, Of Reginald the Young and Brave.