We left the old castle with a feeling of regret. We had had time to establish a kind of friendship with it, and did not like to quit it. After dinner we wandered on to the brow of the hill, and sitting down, watched the landscape as the closing evening varied all its hues. It had been a fine clear day; no pain had reached us ourselves and no storm had come across the sky--all had been bright and unshadowed. The last moments of such a day are precious, for who can say what to-morrow will bring forth? and all feeling it alike, we lingered on till the edge of the sun touched the horizon, and then returned to the busy haunts of man. SCRAPS.--NO. I. THE LADY AND THE FLOWER. There be of British arms and deeds Who sing in noble strain, Of Poitiers' field, and Agincourt, And Cressy's bloody plain. High tales of merry England, Full often have been told, For never wanted bard to sing The adieus of the hold. But now I tune another string, To try my minstrel power, My story of a gallant knight, A lady, and a flower. The noble sun, that shines on all, The little or the great, As bright on cottage doorway small, As on the castle gate. Came pouring over fair Guienne From the far eastern sea; And glisten'd on the broad Garrone, And slept on Blancford lea. The morn was up, the morn was bright, In southern summer's rays, And Nature caroll'd in the light, And sung her Maker's praise. Fair Blancford! thou art always fair, With many a shady dell, And bland variety and change Of forest and of fell. But Blancford on that morn was gay, With many a pennon bright, And glittering arms and panoply Shone in the morning light. For good Prince Edward, England's pride, Now lay in Blancford's towers, And weary sickness had consumed The hero's winter hours. But now that brighter beams had come With Summer's brighter ray, He called his gallant knights around To spend a festal day. With tournament and revelry, To pass away the hours, And win fair Mary from her sire, The lord of Blancford's towers. But why fair Mary's brow was sad None in the castle knew, Nor why she watch'd one garden bed, Where none but wild pinks grew. Some said that seven nights before A page had sped away, To where Lord Clifford, with his power On Touraine's frontier lay. To Blancford no Lord Clifford came, And many a tale was told, For well 'twas known that he had sought Fair Mary's love of old. And some there said, Lord Clifford's love Had cool'd at Mary's pride, And some there said, that other vows His heart Inconstant tied.