“At last by what this scroll attests He left atonement brief, For years of anguish to the breasts His guilt had wrung with grief. “‘There lived,’ he said, ‘a fair young dame Beneath my mother’s roof; I loved her, but against my flame Her purity was proof. “‘I feigned repentance, friendship pure: That mood she did not check, But let her husband’s miniature Be copied from her neck. “‘As means to search him, my deceit Took care to him was borne Nought but his picture’s counterfeit, And Jane’s reported scorn. “‘The treachery took: she waited wild; My slave came back and lied Whate’er I wished; she clasped her child, And swooned, and all but died. “‘I felt her tears for years and years Quench not my flame, but stir; The very hate I bore her mate Increased my love for her. “‘Fame told us of his glory, while Joy flushed the face of Jane; And while she blessed his name, her smile Struck fire into my brain. “‘No fears could damp; I reached the camp, Sought out its champion; And if my broad-sword failed at last, ’Twas long and well laid on. “‘This wound’s my meed, my name’s Kinghorn, My foe’s the Ritter Bann.’—— The wafer to his lips was borne, And we shrived the dying man. “He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein; But I see my tale has changed you pale.”— The Abbot went for wine; And brought a little page who poured It out, and knelt and smiled:— The stunned knight saw himself restored To childhood in his child; And stooped and caught him to his breast, Laughed loud and wept anon, And with a shower of kisses pressed The darling little one. “And where went Jane?”—“To a nunnery, Sir— Look not again so pale— Kinghorn’s old dame grew harsh to her.”— “And has she ta’en the veil?”— “Sit down, Sir,” said the priest, “I bar Rash words.”—They sat all three, And the boy played with the knight’s broad star, As he kept him on his knee. “Think ere you ask her dwelling-place,” The Abbot further said; “Time draws a veil o’er beauty’s face More deep than cloister’s shade. “Grief may have made her what you can Scarce love perhaps for life.” “Hush, Abbot,” cried the Ritter Bann, “Or tell me where’s my wife.” The priest undid two doors that hid The inn’s adjacent room, And there a lovely woman stood, Tears bathed her beauty’s bloom. One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain; Such was the throb and mutual sob Of the Knight embracing Jane. THE HARPER. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.