BY MR WILLIAM RICHARDSON. The lady sat in leafy bow’r, Near Royal _Sheene’s_ fair dome; The Harper, journeying, westward went, Far, far from friends and home. His lyre, in grass-green satchel plac’d, Hung graceful by his side; Th’ harmonious strings oft murm’ring rang, As o’er the heaths he hied. In search was he of _Hotspur_ fam’d. With tidings from his dame, His fair lady, the lovely _Kate_, Since chronicled in fame. She pin’d the day, she wept the night, For her dear absent lord; And days, and weeks, and months flew o’er, Nor comfort could afford. The lady sat by winding Thames, Near where the wand’rer past; And him she beckon’d to draw near And thus the Bard address’d. “From whence com’st thou? O! sweet Harper. From whence com’st thou? Tell me; From border of the daring Scot? Art of the North Countrie?” “I come not from the fair Scotland; (Yet near green _Cheviot_ roam;) From _Aln’s_ sweet, bosky banks I come; _Northumberland_ my home.” “Then freely smite thy sweet, sweet lyre, Thy lyre of far-spread fame; The bold Percy--his castle’s there; Wide swells his warrior name. “For thou his harper art I ween; I see gleam on thy vest, Thy paly, cusped, silver moon, The _Saracen’s_ proud crest. “His ancestor in fell crusade, For England’s powerful king, Fought manfully, and did from thence, That _Syrian_ trophy bring.” With flying touch he swept the strings, And upward turn’d his eye, As if the _genius_ of the song, Inspiring, hover’d nigh. His finger caught the master note, And soon his ardent face Beam’d, dignified with native fire Of brave _Northumbria’s_ race. He sang the deeds of _Hotspur_ bold, At blood-stain’d _Otterbourne_: And eke the feats of valiant _Ralph_, As furious in his turn. Two warrior lords, (and brothers they,) As e’er drew shining brand; Nor from the gory field would flinch, Whilst Valour there might stand. And mournful now, he touch’d the harp, And, grieving, oft he sigh’d For _Widdrington_, the mightiest chief That e’er in battle died. The _Forster_, _Fenwick_, _Collingwood_, The _Heron_ of renown, High in the ranks of Lord Percy, The war-axe hewed down! He sang the acts of other chiefs, That by the _Reedside_ fell; The flow’r of val’rous families That still near _Cheviot_ dwell. The heath-hen long, and fallow deer, Their native heights did quit; With warrior-blood th’ attainted sward, Made e’en the gorecock flit! The Percies in that vengeful fight, Both, both were pris’ners ta’en; But for the Douglas’ dead bodie Were yielded up again. He ceas’d the song, then paused awhile; Down roll’d the silent tear; The lady, smit with sympathy, Could scarce the like forbear.