Take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send; It is my life--send it to Eleanor--: He's dead, and howling after me for blood! "Take this," he cried: and thrust into her arms A wet napkin, wrapt about; then rushed Past, howling. She received into her arms Pale death, and followed on the wings of fear. They passed swift through the outer gate; the wretch Howling, leaped o'er the wall into the moat, Stifling in mud. Fair Ellen passed the bridge, And heard a gloomy voice cry, "Is it done?" As the deer wounded, Ellen flew over The pathless plain; as the arrows that fly By night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness. She fled from fear, till at her house arrived. Her maids await her; on her bed she falls, That bed of joy where erst her lord hath pressed. "Ah woman's fear!" she cried, "Ah cursed duke! Ah my dear lord! Ah wretched Eleanor! "My lord was like a flower upon the brows Of lusty May! Ah life as frail as flower! O ghastly Death! withdraw thy cruel hand! Seek'st thou that flower to deck thy horrid temples? "My lord was like a star in highest heaven Drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness; My lord was like the opening eyes of day, When western winds creep softly oer the flowers. "But he is darkened; like the summer's noon Clouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down; The breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves,' O Eleanor, weak woman, filled with woe!" Thus having spoke, she raised up her head, And saw the bloody napkin by her side, Which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold More terrified, saw it unfold itself. Her eyes were fixed; the bloody cloth unfolds, Disclosing to her sight the murdered head Of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted With gory blood; it groaned, and thus it spake: "O Eleanor, behold thy husband's head, Who sleeping on the stones of yonder tower, Was reft of life by the accursed duke: A hired villain turned my sleep to death. "O Eleanor, beware the cursed duke; O give him not thy hand, now I am dead. He seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night, Hired a villain to bereave my life." She sat with dead cold limbs, stiffened to stone; She took the gory head up in her arms; She kissed the pale lips; she had no tears to shed; She hugged it to her breast, and groaned her last. ----W. Blake. THE WHISTLE |I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth, I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-- "This whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get oer, And drink them to hell, sir, or ne'er see me Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventured, what champions fell; The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the whistle their requiem shrill. Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,