  BY MR WILLIAM RICHARDSON. The lady sat in leafy bow’r, Near Royal Sheene’s fair dome; The Harper, journeying, westward went, Far, far from friends and home. His lyre, in grass-green satchel plac’d, Hung graceful by his side; Th’ harmonious strings oft murm’ring rang, As o’er the heaths he hied. In search was he of Hotspur fam’d. With tidings from his dame, His fair lady, the lovely Kate, Since chronicled in fame. She pin’d the day, she wept the night, For her dear absent lord; And days, and weeks, and months flew o’er, Nor comfort could afford. The lady sat by winding Thames, Near where the wand’rer past; And him she beckon’d to draw near And thus the Bard address’d. “From whence com’st thou? O! sweet Harper. From whence com’st thou? Tell me; From border of the daring Scot? Art of the North Countrie?” “I come not from the fair Scotland; (Yet near green Cheviot roam;) From Aln’s sweet, bosky banks I come; Northumberland my home.” “Then freely smite thy sweet, sweet lyre, Thy lyre of far-spread fame; The bold Percy—his castle’s there; Wide swells his warrior name. “For thou his harper art I ween; I see gleam on thy vest, Thy paly, cusped, silver moon, The Saracen’s proud crest. “His ancestor in fell crusade, For England’s powerful king, Fought manfully, and did from thence, That Syrian trophy bring.” With flying touch he swept the strings, And upward turn’d his eye, As if the genius of the song, Inspiring, hover’d nigh. His finger caught the master note, And soon his ardent face Beam’d, dignified with native fire Of brave Northumbria’s race. He sang the deeds of Hotspur bold, At blood-stain’d Otterbourne: And eke the feats of valiant Ralph, As furious in his turn. Two warrior lords, (and brothers they,) As e’er drew shining brand; Nor from the gory field would flinch, Whilst Valour there might stand. And mournful now, he touch’d the harp, And, grieving, oft he sigh’d For Widdrington, the mightiest chief That e’er in battle died. The Forster, Fenwick, Collingwood, The Heron of renown, High in the ranks of Lord Percy, The war-axe hewed down! He sang the acts of other chiefs, That by the Reedside fell; The flow’r of val’rous families That still near Cheviot dwell. The heath-hen long, and fallow deer, Their native heights did quit; With warrior-blood th’ attainted sward, Made e’en the gorecock flit! The Percies in that vengeful fight, Both, both were pris’ners ta’en; But for the Douglas’ dead bodie Were yielded up again. He ceas’d the song, then paused awhile; Down roll’d the silent tear; The lady, smit with sympathy, Could scarce the like forbear. Then stifling back the star-like drop, With woman’s winning voice, She ask’d if tidings from his lord Would not his heart rejoice? “Perchance,” quoth she, “I may you aid, (Assuage your troubled breast,) For oh! methinks the task is good To comfort the distressed!” His kerchief to his furrow’d face He gently did apply, And bright and fervent shone his front, New fire illum’d his eye. “But thrice the golden circling sun, Has rubied yonder east,” The lady said, “Since news there came From Shrewsb’ry’s hostile waste. “There Hotspur and his valiant band, Oppos’d to Tudor’s ire, Encamped lay, and high their hearts Beat for the conflict dire.” So having said, her snowy hand She plac’d across her brow; “Lo! down by Windingshore’s dim vale, A Herald’s coming now.” The Herald flew on wings of wind, Swift to the Royal fane; “A victory,” he stoutly cried, “And valiant Hotspur slain!” The death-sound pierc’d the Harper’s ear, And instant on the plain He dropt,—as light’ning had him struck, Nor e’er spoke word again. August, 1810. Vase of flowers (decorative footer) |
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