“When the wearie year brings Hallowe’en Ance mair to this lo’ed land, An’ if thou wilt come at midnight’s hour Thou shalt hear of thine own Hildebrande.” O, the wintry wind blaws sair and chill, An’ it whistles fu’ mournfully, As the ladye strolls, at the witching hour, To the glen adown the lea. The maiden draws her mantle close, For the night is dark an’ drear, An’ now that she nears the trysting-tree Her heart it quails wi’ fear. O, louder and hoarser blaws the blast, An’ darker grows the sky, An’ the clattering tramp of a courser’s hoof Grows nigh, an’ yet more nigh! The coal-black steed doth slack his speed An’ halt at the ladye’s side, An’ a red light gleams in flickering beams Around her far and wide. A mail-clad knight doth now alight, So ghastly pale an’ wan That the ladye cries, wi’ tearfu’ eyes, “Where is my lover gane!” A voice like the hollow, murm’ring wind Replied to the high-born dame— “O, thy lover sleeps on the battle-field Among the noble slain— “But the soul that vowed to be true to thee Will be true whate’er betide, An’ returns from the land of chivalrie To claim thee for his bride!” This said, he stretched forth his bony hand To his well-beloved bride, An’ now he mounts the coal-black steed Wi’ the ladye by his side. But hist! the moor-cock crows fu’ shrill Alang the dreary way, An’ goblin, elf, nor wand’ring ghaist Can face the light o’ day. The phantom steed doth champ his bit An’ flash his fiery eye— An’ away they speed o’er hill an’ dale— O’er rock an’ mountain high! Lang years hae passed since Sir Hildebrande came Frae the fields o’ Palestine, To claim fair Margaret for his bride, But on every Hallowe’en, When the castle clock tolls midnight’s hour, As on that night of yore, The ladye and knight are seen to sweep Adown the drearie moor. The coal-black steed doth champ his bit An’ flash his fiery e’e, But he slacks his speed at the knight’s command As he gains the trysting-tree. * * * * * TO L——. WITH SOME POEMS. BY GRACE GREENWOOD. I know these lays will come to thee Like flowers along thy pathway strown— And wear to thy young, generous eyes A grace and beauty not their own.