So ordered him at once to bed,
  And clapped a blister on his head. 
    Within the sound of the castle-clock
  There stands a huge and rugged rock,
  And I have heard the peasants say,
  That the grieving groom at noon that day
  Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff,
  At the base of the black and beetling cliff. 
    Beside the rock there is an oak,
  Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke,
  And I have heard the peasants say,
  That there Sir Rudolph’s mantle lay,
  And coiled in many a deadly wreath
  A venomous serpent slept beneath.

* * * * *

STANZAS,
WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING’S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE.

  Most beautiful!—­I gaze and gaze
   In silence on the glorious pile;
  And the glad thoughts of other days
   Come thronging back the while. 
  To me dim Memory makes more dear
   The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
  But if i stood a stranger here,
   The ground were still divine.

  Some awe the good and wise have felt,
   As reverently their feet have trod
  On any spot where man hath knelt,
   To commune with his God;
  By haunted spring, or fairy well,
   Beneath the ruined convent’s gloom,
  Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,
   Or the false prophet’s tomb.

  But when was high devotion graced
   With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
  Than thus the limner’s art hath traced
   From the time-honored stone? 
  The spirit here of worship seems
   To hold the heart in wondrous thrall,
  And heavenward hopes and holy dreams,
   Came at her voiceless call;—­

  At midnight, when the lonely moon
   Looks from a vapor’s silvery fold;
  Or morning, when the sun of June
   Crests the high towers with gold;
  For every change of hour and form
   Makes that fair scene more deeply fair;
  And dusk and day-break, calm and storm,
   Are all religion there.

* * * * *

  A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD: 

  TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

  Non voglio cento scudi.—­Song.

  Oh say not that the minstrel’s art,
    The pleasant gift of verse,
  Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
    Can ever be a curse;—­
  Though sorrow reign within his heart,
    And Penury hold his purse.

  Say not his toil is profitless;—­
    Though he charm no rich relation,
  The Fairies all his labors bless
    With such remuneration,
  As Mr. Hume would soon confess
    Beyond his calculation.

  Annuities, and three per cents,
    Little cares he about them;
  And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,
    He rambles on without them: 
  But love, and noble sentiments,—­
    Oh, never bid him doubt them!