And Mary’s cheek ’gan blushing bright, And Mary’s heart beat high, And Mary’s breath that fear oppressed Came in a long glad sigh. Straight to the Prince the knight he rode, "I claim these lists," he cried, "Though late into the field I come, My suit be not denied; "For we have fought beside the Loire, And stained our arms in blood; Not ever lost one step of ground, So long as rebels stood. "Hemmed in, I one time never thought To die in British land, Or see my noble prince again, Or kiss his royal hand. "But well fought every gallant squire, And well fought every knight; And rebels have been taught to feel The force of British might. "And now in humble terms they sue, To know thy high command, And here stand I these lists to claim, For a fair lady’s hand. "For Mary’s love, and chivalry, I dare the world to fight, And foul and bitterly he lies, Who dares deny my right" "No, no, brave Clifford," Edward said, "No lists to-day for thee, Thy gallant deeds beside the Loire, Well prove thy chivalry. "Sir Guy, Sir Henry, and the rest, Have well acquit their arms, But Edward’s thanks are Clifford’s due, As well as Mary’s charms." "My lord, you are her sire," he said, "Give kind consent and free, And who denies our Clifford’s right, Shall ride a tilt with me." Gay spake the prince, gay laughed the throng, And Mary said not nay, And bright with smile, and dance, and song, Went down the festal day. And when Lord Clifford to the board Led down his Mary fair, A knot of pinks was in his cap, A knot was in her hair. For it had been their sign of love, And loved by them was still, Till death came quietly on their heads, And bowed them to his will. And now, though years have passed away, And all that years have seen, And Clifford’s deeds and Mary’s charms, Are as they ne’er had been, Some wind, as if in memory Has borne the seeds on high, To deck the ruin’s crumbling wall, And catch the passing eye. It tells a tale to those who hear; For beauty, strength, and power, Are but the idols of a day, More short-lived than a flower. Joy on, joy on, then, while ye may, Nor waste the moments dear; Nor give yourself a cause to sigh, Nor teach to shed a tear. AN OLD MAID’S FIRST LOVE. From Chamber’s Edinburgh Journal.