her father's gaze?
And who is he for whom the crowd
Make ready room, and "Welcome" loud
With gleeful voices raise?

"Right welcome!" though the revellers shout,
They hail the minstrel "Stranger!"
And in the Baron's eye dwells doubt,
And his daughter's look thrills "danger!"

Though he seemeth meek the youth is bold,
And his speech is firm and free;
He saith he will carol a legend old,
Of a Norman lord of Torksey told:
He learnt it o'er the sea;
And he will not sing for the Baron's gold,
But for love of minstrelsy.

"Come, tune thy harp!" the Baron saith,
"And tell thy minstrel tale:
It is too late to harbour wrath
For the thieves in helm and mail:

"Our fathers' home again is ours!--
Though Thorold is Saxon still,
To a song of thy foreign troubadours
He can list with right good will!"

A shout of glee rings to the roof,
And the revellers form a ring;
Then silent wait to mark what proof
Of skill with voice and string
The youthful stranger will afford.

Full soon he tunes each quivering chord,
And, with preamble wildly sweet
He doth the wondering listeners greet;--
Then strikes into a changeful chaunt
That fits his fanciful romaunt.

The Daughter of Plantagenet.

THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S TALE.

FYTTE THE FYRSTE.

'Tis midnight, and the broad full moon
Pours on the earth her silver noon;
Sheeted in white, like spectres of fear,
Their ghostly forms the towers uprear;
And their long dark shadows behind them are cast,
Like the frown of the cloud when the lightning hath past.

The warder sleeps on the battlement,
And there is not a breeze to curl the Trent;
The leaf is at rest, and the owl is mute--
But list! awaked is the woodland lute:
The nightingale warbles her omen sweet
On the hour when the ladye her lover shall meet.

She waves her hand from the loophole high,
And watcheth, with many a struggling sigh,
And hearkeneth in doubt, and paleth with fear,--
Yet tremblingly trusts her true knight is near;--
And there skims o'er the river--or doth her heart doat?--
As with wing of the night-hawk--her lover's brave boat.

His noble form hath attained the strand,
And she waves again her small white hand;
And breathing to heaven, in haste, a prayer,
Softly glides down the lonely stair;
And there stands by the portal, all watchfu