Speak!—­astounded Hubert cannot;
          And, if power to speak he had,
        All are daunted, all the household
          Smitten to the heart and sad. 
        ’Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
        Living man it must be he! 
        Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
        And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

        Long and long was he unheard of: 
          To his brother then he came,
        Made confession, asked forgiveness,
          Asked it by a brother’s name,
        And by all the saints in heaven;
        And of Eustace was forgiven: 
        Then in a convent went to hide
        His melancholy head, and there he died.

        But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
          Had preserved from murderers’ hands,
        And from pagan chains had rescued,
          Lived with honour on his lands. 
        Sons he had, saw sons of theirs: 
        And through ages, heirs of heirs,
        A long posterity renowned
        Sounded the horn which they alone could sound.

THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSES.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

     There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid,
     And Zillah was her name, so passing fair
     That all Judea spake the virgin’s praise. 
     He who had seen her eyes’ dark radiance,
     How it revealed her soul, and what a soul
     Beamed in the mild effulgence, woe to him! 
     For not in solitude, for not in crowds,
     Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid
     Her imaged form, which followed everywhere,
     And filled the heart, and fixed the absent eye. 
     Alas for him! her bosom owned no love
     Save the strong ardour of religious zeal;
     For Zillah upon heaven had centred all
     Her spirit’s deep affections.  So for her
     Her tribe’s men sighed in vain, yet reverenced
     The obdurate virtue that destroy’d their hopes.

     One man there was, a vain and wretched man,
     Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her: 
     His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek
     E’en till the flush of angry modesty
     Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. 
     She loathed the man, for Hamuel’s eye was bold,
     And the strong workings of brute selfishness
     Had moulded his broad features; and she feared
     The bitterness of wounded vanity
     That with a fiendish hue would overcast
     His faint and lying smile.  Nor vain her fear,
     For Hamuel vowed revenge, and laid a plot
     Against her virgin fame.  He spread abroad
     Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports
     That soon obtain belief; how Zillah’s eye,
     When in the temple heavenward it was raised,
     Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those
     Who had beheld the enthusiast’s