orn verse!--
Begin thy ditty to rehearse,
And take, for guerdon, wishes blythe--
Less thou wilt take red gold therewith!"

Red gold the minstrel saith he scorneth,--
But, now the merry Yule returneth,
For love of Him whom angels sung,
And love of one his burning tongue
Is fain to name, but may not tell,--
Once more, unto the harp's sweet swell,
A knightly chanson he will sing,--
And, straight, he struck the throbbing string.

Sir Raymond and the False Palmer.

THE STRANGER MINSTREL'S SECOND TALE.

Sir Raymond de Clifford, a gallant band
Hath gathered to fight in the Holy Land;
And his lady's heart is sinking in sorrow,--
For the knight and his lances depart on the morrow!

"Oh, wherefore, noble Raymond, tell,"--
His lovely ladye weeping said,--
"With lonely sorrow must I dwell,
When but three bridal moons have fled?"

Sir Raymond kissed her pale, pale cheek,
And strove, with a warrior's pride,
While an answer of love he essayed to speak,
His flooding tears to hide.

But an image rose in his heated brain,
That shook his heart with vengeful pain,
And anger flashed in his rolling eye,
While his ladye looked on him tremblingly.

Yet, he answered not in wrathful haste,--
But clasped his bride to his manly breast;
And with words of tender yet stately dress,
Thus strove to banish her heart's distress:--

"De Burgh hath enrolled him with Philip of France,--
Baron Hubert,--who challenged De Clifford's lance,
And made him the scoff of the burgher swine,
When he paid his vows at the Virgin's shrine.

"Oh, ask me not, love, to tarry in shame,--
Lest 'craven' be added to Raymond's name!
To Palestine hastens my mortal foe,--
And I with our Lion's Heart will go!

"Nay, Gertrude, repeat not thy sorrowing tale!
Behold in my casque the scallop-shell,--
And see on my shoulder the Holy Rood--
The pledge of my emprize--bedyed in blood!

"Thou wouldst not, love, I should be forsworn,
Nor the stain on my honour be tamely borne:
Do thou to the saints, each passing day,
For Raymond and royal Richard pray,--

"While they rush to the rescue, for God's dear Son;
And soon, for thy Raymond, the conqu'ror's meed,--
By the skill of this arm, and the strength of my steed,--
From the Paynim swart shall be nobly won.

"Thou shalt not long for De Clifford mourn,
Ere he to thy bosom of love return;
When