early time;
And it is true, as I've heard say,
That when the nightingale sings by day,
The dying who hears it will pass away."
"No, no, my child, the song you hear
Is that of the throstle-cock singing clear:
I see him upon the linden tree,
And you, if you like, may also see.
I know its speckled breast too well;
It is not, dear child, the nightingale."

When this she heard, the maiden sighed,
As if she were vexed she was denied
The hope of passing quickly away
To yon regions bright of eternal day.

"Oh mother! list, what do I hear?
Sir Peregrine's horn is winding clear;
Ah, I know the sound, as it seems to say
In its windings, 'Hali-hali-day;'
And it is true, as I've heard tell,
When a dead man's horn sounds loud and shrill,
It is a true sign to his earthly bride,
He will wait for her spirit at evening tide."

The Countess turned her face to the Yerl;
It was true what was said by the dying girl;
It _was_ Sir Peregrine's horn they heard,
And they both sat mute, nor whispered a word,
For they wondered much, and were sore afraid
Of mysteries working about the maid,
Who, as she lay in her ecstasie,
Kept muttering slow an Ave Marie:
"Oh, Lady sweet! the sign hath come,
Happy the maid whom her knight calls home;
It is the nightingale that I hear,
The golden sun is shining clear;
And I've heard tell in time past gone,
Blessed is the bier that the sun shines on."

And, as they listened, there came to their ear
The grating of the portcullis gear,
And a cry of fear from the ballion green,
As if the retainers a ghost had seen:
Tramp and tramp on the scaliere,
And along the corridor leading there;
The door is opened, and lo! comes in
The leal and the living Sir Peregrine.
"Holy Maria!" the Countess cried,
"Holy Maria!" the Yerl replied;
The maid looked up, then sank her head,
As an Ave Marie again she said:
"Ave Marie! my sweet ladye,
Ave Marie! I come to thee.
Ah, soft and clear those eyes of thine,
That look so kindly into mine;
Oh Ladye sweet! stretch forth thy hand
To welcome me to yon happy land;
Oh Virgin! open thy bosom fair,
That thy poor child may nestle there;"
Then she laid her arms across her breast,
And gently, softly, sank to rest.
The throstle-cock's voice rang out more clear
On the linden tree there growing near,
And the sun burst forth with brighter ray
On the couch where her spirit had passed away.

V.

Over hollow, and over height,
Sir Peregrine sought that caitiff knight
Who ha