expression over his features, which made the keen edge of his rebukes infinitely more cutting and effective.  But the prevailing tone of feeling in him was sad and oppressive.  These wandering minstrels had, from remote ages, been held as seers, and a peep into futurity was often supposed to accompany their poetical inspirations—­a superstition not confined to any particular locality, but obtaining a widely disseminated belief in all climes and nations where imagination assumes her sway, and dares to assert her power.

After a short space, and without any invitation, the ballad-maker, like some Pythian priestess on her tripod, began to exhibit manifestations of the afflatus.  The spirit of song seemed to be stealing upon him, and in a moment the listening auditory were still.  In substance, he half recited, half sung, the following ballad:—­

    “’Maiden, braid those tresses bright,
      Wreathe thy ringlets from the blast;
    Why those locks of curling light
      Heedless to the rude winds cast?

    “’Maiden, why that darkened brow? 
      From those eyes, once dimmed with weeping,
    Lurid gleams are gathering now,
      O’er their pale wan shadows creeping.’

    “Silent still the maid passed by,
      Near nor voice nor footstep came. 
    Sudden cleaving earth and sky,
      Flashed a brand of arrowy flame!

    “’Maiden, turn that gaze on me,
      Onwards why so madly bent?’
    Still no stay, no pause made she
      Through that kindling element.

* * * * *

    “Now, the midnight chant is stealing,
      Mass and requiem breathing near;
    Hushed the blast, as if revealing
      Sounds to earth that Heaven might hear.

    “From yon pile, soft voices swelling
      Dirge and anthem for the dead;—­
    Demon shrieks, their lost doom yelling,
      Tend Lord Rudolph’s dying bed.

    “Holy men, with song and prayer,
      Fain would shrive the passing soul;
    Fiend-like whispers, to his ear. 
      Winds, in muttering curses, roll.

    “Ere his last lone shuddering cry,
      To his couch the maiden came;
    On his breast she silently
      Bent an eye of ravening flame.

    “One wild shriek the sufferer sent,
      Ere life’s last frail link might sever;
    Laughed the maiden, as she leant
      O’er that form, to cling for ever.

    “Closer to his heart she pressed;
      Scorched, the quivering flesh recoiled;
    Unconsumed his burning breast,
      While that grim tormentor smiled.

    “‘Now revenge!’ the maiden cried,
      ’I have bartered heaven for this;
    Mine thou art, proud Rudolph’s bride,
      Mine, by this last demon kiss.’

    “Tower, and battlement, and hall,
      Scathed as with the thunder-stroke,
    Flashed through midnight’s dusky pall,
      Twined in wreaths of livid smoke.