'Tis there thy stony couch is laid, And there the wearied king may rest-- But will not Penda's threats invade The quiet of the monarch's breast? No--my son shall quell his rage-- What have I said?--ah me, undone; Ne'er shall the parent's snowy age Recall the tender name of son! O would that I for thee had died, Nor liv'd to wail thy piteous case! Who dar'd defy those looks of pride, That mark the chiefs of Wyba's race! But, O my son, I little knew What pow'r was in that arm of might! That weeds of such a baleful hue The laurel's beauteous wreath should blight! Yes, my son, the shaft that thee Transfix'd, hath drawn thy father's fate! O how will Hengist weep to see The woes that on his line await! To see my Offa's latest pangs, As wild in death he bites the shore! A savage wolf, with bloody fangs, The lamb's unspotted bosom tore! Who never knew to give offence, But to revenge his father's wrong!-- Some abler arm convey him hence, And bear a father's love along! Alas! this tongue is all too weak The last sad duties to perform! These feeble arms their task forsake! Else should they rise in wrathful storm. Against the ruthless rebel's head Who dared such laurels to destroy; To bid each virtue's hope lie dead! And crush a parent's only joy! Inter him by yon ivy tow'r, And raise the note of deepest dole! Ne'er should a friend in deathful hour, Forget the chief of gen'rous soul: And o'er the grave erect a stone, His worth and lineage high to tell: And, by the faithful cross be shown That in the faith of Christ he fell! Hail! valiant chiefs of Hatfield Wood! Ne'er may your blooming honours cease! That with unequal strength withstood Th' invader of your country's peace. Now, round this head let darkness fall! Descend, ye shafts of thund'rous hail! Ne'er shall be said, in Edwy's hall That troubled ghost was heard to wail!-- Then, with his feeble arm, the fire Into the thickest battle flies, To die, was all the chiefs desire; Oppress'd with wounds and grief, he dies. And let the future soul of rhime, If chance he cons of Edwy's praise, As high his quiv'ring fingers climb, Record, that Mordrid pour'd the lays! ATHELGIVA. A LEGENDARY TALE OF WHITBY ABBEY. BY WILLIAM WATKINS.