Then she flung him down the tickets Well the knyghte their import knew-- "Take this gold, and win thy armour From the unbelieving Jew. Though in garments mean and lowly Thou wouldst roam the world with me, Only as a belted warrior, Stranger, will I wed with thee!" At the feast of good Saint Stitchem, In the middle of the spring, There was some superior jousting, By the order of the King. "Valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch, "You will please to understand, He who bears himself most bravely Shall obtain my daughter's hand." Well and bravely did they bear them, Bravely battled, one and all; But the bravest in the tourney Was a warrior stout and tall. None could tell his name or lineage, None could meet him in the field, And a goose regardant proper Hissed along his azure shield. "Warrior, thou hast won my daughter!" But the champion bowed his knee, "Royal blood may not be wasted On a simple knyghte like me. She I love is meek and lowly; But her heart is kind and free; Also, there is tin forthcoming, Though she is of low degree." Slowly rose that nameless warrior, Slowly turned his steps aside, Passed the lattice where the princess Sate in beauty, sate in pride. Passed the row of noble ladies, Hied him to an humbler seat, And in silence laid the chaplet At the taylzeour's daughter's feet. The Midnight Visit. It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom; They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its charge, That France was bristling high in arms--the Emperor at large. 'Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, The door revolved upon its hinge--Great Heaven!--What enters there? A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride; His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide; And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star,-- Saint George! protect us! 'tis THE MAN,--the thunder-bolt of war! Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's ridge? Are these the spurs of Austerlitz--the boots of Lodi's bridge? Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet hive? What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive? Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; What wonder if he shrank in fear, for who could meet the glance Of him who rear'd, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of France? From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took, Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look: "Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain-- The watchword for to-night is France--the answer St Helene.