Part first.

Now, unto fair Alkrington tidings there came,
And the gallant young knight he soon heard of the same,
That a gentle fair damsel had passed that morn,
And was gone up a-hunting with hound and with horn;
'And oh!' said Sir Ashton, 'if that be the case,
Methinks I would fain join the maid in the chase,
And so, bid my groom-boy, withouten delay,
Bring forth my white hunter,—I'll ride him to-day.'

And soon his white hunter was led to the gate,
Where, neighing and pacing, he scarcely would wait;
He champ'd the steel bits, and he flung his head high,
As if he would fain snuff the air of the sky,
And wist not to breathe the low wind of the plain,
Which spread, like a white cloud, his tail and his mane:
'And oh!' thought the knight, as he view'd him with pride,
'The game shall be love when my Arab I ride!'

The knight he rode west, over Blakeley's high land,
But tidings he heard not of maid or her band;
The knight he rode east, t'wards the uprising sun,
But the broad heaths of Moston lay silent and dun;
And then he sped north, but she did not appear;
The cry of the hunter came not to his ear,
Till o'er lonely Syddall awoke a fair strain,
And he rode till he join'd the fair maid and her train.

And who was the maiden, that, plumed so gay,
Went forth with the hounds and good hunters that day?
And why did the damsel make slight of all heed,
Or whither she went with her hound and her steed?
And why reck'd she little of all that gay band,
But still cast her long-looking gaze o'er the land?
And smil'd not, though often she turned and sigh'd,
Till a snowy white courser afar she espied?

Sweet Mary, twin rose of the Assheton line,
Was she who came forth like a Dian divine;
And often the knight and the damsel, of late,
Had met at the hunting, through love or through fate;
And now she bade welcome, with maidenly pride
The knight wav'd his hand, and rode on by her side;
But ere the old woodlands of Bowlee were cross'd,
Both knight and fair maid to the hunters were lost.

For there, whilst the chase hurries on like the wind,
The twain of young lovers have tarried behind;
And leaving their steeds, the deep woodlands they pace,
His arm round the maid, and his looks on her face;
He whispers sweet words from his heart's inmost core,
He would love her through life, and through death,—
could he more?
And fondly, in tears, she emplighteth her vow,
'In life and in death, I'll be faithful as thou!'

Part second.

Now, unto fair Alkrington tidings there came,
And soon was the knight made aware of the same,
That Mary, his loved one, was held in deep thrall,
Close bolted and barr'd, down at Middleton hall;
And that her old father had sworn by his life,
His daughter should ne'er to Sir Ashton be wife;
And that one Sir Morden, a knight from south-land,
Had come down to claim Lady Mary's fair hand.

Oh! woe unto true-love, when kindred severe
Would stifle affection, and chill its warm tear!
And woe unto true-love, when trials come fast,
And friendship is found but a shadow at last!
And woe to the heart that is reft of its own,
And bidden to languish in sorrow alone!
But woe beyond weeping is that when we prove,
That one we lov'd dearly hath ceased to love!

Thus mournful the fate of the maid did appear;
Her sire, though he lov'd her, was stern and austere,
And friends who came round her, when bright was
her day,
Were silent, or doubtful, or kept quite away.
But Hope, like an angel, bright visions still drew,
And pictured her knight ever constant and true,
Till one came and told her he'd ta'en him a bride;—
Her young heart then wither'd, her tears were all dried.

How sweet is the music of wedding-day bells,
On sunny-bright uplands, and down the green dells;
All gaily melodious it comes in the air,
As if undying pleasure were carolling there;
Like golden-wing'd seraphs all broken astray,
And playing on cymbals for bright holiday!
Fen such was the music one gay morning time,
Which bells of Saint Leonard's did merrily chime.

And why rang Saint Leonard's that merry-mad tune?
And why was the church path with flowers bestrewn?
And who was that marble-pale beauty that mov'd
As nothing she hop'd for, and nothing she lov'd
Who gave her white hand, but 'twas clammy and cold,
Who sigh'd when she look'd on her ring of bright gold?
Oh Mary! lost Mary! where now is thy vow,
'In life and in death, I'll be faithful as thou?'

Part third.

IN a ruinous cottage at Cambeshire barn,
An old wither'd crone sat unravelling yarn;
A few heaped embers lay dusty and white,
A lamp, green and fetid, cast ominous light;
A cat strangely barked as it hutch'd by the bob;
A broody hen crow'd from her perch on a cob;
The lamp it burn'd pale, and the lamp it burn'd blue,
And fearfully ghast was the light which it threw.

'And who cometh here?' said the mumbling old crone,
'And why comes a gentleman riding alone?
And why doth he wander areawt such a night,
When the moon is gone down, and the stars not alight;
When those are abroad would stab a lost child,
And the wind comes up muttering fearful and wild,
And the hen 'gins to crow, and the dog 'gins to mew,
And my grave-fatted lamp glimmers dimly and blue?'

When the dog 'gins to mew, and the cat 'gins to bark,
And yon musty old skull snaps its teeth in the dark,
And the toad and the urchin crawl in from the moor,
And the frightful black adder creeps under the door,
And the hapless self-murder'd that died in her sin,
Comes haunting the house with her dolorous din,
And stands in the nook like an image of clay,
With the sad look she wore when her life pass'd away.

A knocking was heard at the old hovel door,
And forth stepp'd a dark muffled man on the floor;
He threw back his mantle of many a fold,
And crossed the wan palm of the sybil with gold.
'Now, Sir Knight of Alkrington, what wouldst thou know,
That, seeking my home, then entreatest me so?
The world-sweeping mower thy heart-wound must cure;
But she who lies mourning hath more to endure;

'But, warning I give thee, a sign from afar—
There's a cloud on thy sun, there's a spot on thy star.
Go, climb the wild mountain, or toil on the plain,
Or be outcast on land, or be wrecked on the main;
Or seek the red battle and dare the death wound,
Or mine after treasure a mile under ground;
But sleeping or waking, on ocean or strand,
Thy life is prolong'd, if than hold thine own hand.

'What further was said 'twixt the knight and the crone
Was never repeated, and never was known;
But when he came forth, to remount him again,
One, fearful and dark, held his stirrup and rein—
His horse terror-shaking, stood covered with foam,
It ran with him miles ere he turn'd it t'wards home;
The grey morning broke, and the battle cock crew,
Ere the lorn hearted knight to his chamber withdrew.

Part fourth.

And who hath not heard how the knight from that day,
Was altered in look, and unwont in his way;
And how he sought wonders of every form,
And things of all lands, from a gem to a worm;
And how he divided his father's domain,
And sold many parts to the purchaser's gain;
And how his poor neighbours with pity were sad;
And said, good Sir Ashton, through love, was gone mad?

But, strangest of all, on that woe-wedding night,
A black horse was stabled where erst stood the white;
The grooms, when they found him, in terror quick fled,
His breath was hot smoke, and his eyes burning red;
He beat down a strong wall of mortar and crag,
He tore his oak stall as a dog would a rag,
And no one durst put forth a hand near that steed
Till a priest had read ave, and pater, and creed.

And then he came forth, the strange beautiful thing,
With speed that could lead a wild eagle on wing;
And raven had never spread plume on the air
Whose lustreful darkness with his might compare.
He bore the young Ashton—none else could him ride—
O'er flood and o'er fell, and o'er quarry-pit wide;
The housewife, she blessed her, and held fast her child,
And the men swore both horse and his rider were wild!

And then, when the knight to the hunting field came,
He rode as he sought rather death than his game;
He halloo'd through woods where he'd wander'd of yore,
But the lost Lady Mary he never saw more!
And no one durst ride in the track where he led,
So fearful his leaps, and so madly he sped;
And in his wild phrensy he gallop'd one day
Down the church steps at Rochdale, and up the same way.