Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then So soon, so sad to part, When first in Roslin’s lovely glen You triumphed o’er my heart? Your locks they glittered to the sheen, Your hunter garb was trim; And graceful was the ribbon green That bound your manly limb! Ah! little thought I to deplore Those limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound. Ye cruel, cruel, that combined The guiltless to pursue; My Gilderoy was ever kind, He could not injure you! A long adieu! but where shall fly Thy widow all forlorn, When every mean and cruel eye Regards my woe with scorn? Yes! they will mock thy widow’s tears, And hate thine orphan boy; Alas! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy. Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay, And weep and linger on the ground, And sigh my heart away. ADELGITHA. The ordeal’s fatal trumpet sounded, And sad pale Adelgitha came, When forth a valiant champion bounded, And slew the slanderer of her fame. She wept, delivered from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove— “Seek not,” she cried, “oh! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha’s love. “For he is in a foreign far land Whose arm should now have set me free And I must wear the willow garland For him that’s dead, or false to me.” “Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!” He raised his vizor—At the sight She fell into his arms and fainted; It was indeed her own true knight! ABSENCE. ’Tis not the loss of love’s assurance, It is not doubting what thou art, But ’tis the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart. The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, When each is lonely doomed to weep, Are fruits on desert isles that perish, Or riches buried in the deep. What though, untouched by jealous madness, Our bosom’s peace may fall to wreck; The undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, Is but more slowly doomed to break. Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath? ’Tis Lethe’s gloom, but not its quiet,— The pain without the peace of death! THE RITTER BANN. The Ritter Bann from Hungary Came back renowned in arms, But scorning jousts of chivalry And love and ladies’ charms. While other knights held revels, he Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, And in Vienna’s hostelrie Slow paced his lonely room. There entered one whose face he knew,— Whose voice, he was aware, He oft at mass had listened to, In the holy house of prayer. ’Twas the Abbot of St. James’s monks, A fresh and fair old man: His reverend air arrested even The gloomy Ritter Bann. But seeing with him an ancient dame Come clad in Scotch attire, The Ritter’s colour went and came, And loud he spoke in ire.