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sects and parties; it has obtained the sanction of the benchers, after a cautious examination into its merits; it has attracted the notice of foreigners engaged in similar duties, who hail it with joy as a fellowlabourer in the cause of advancing the empire of law; but without the support of the students themselves it must ultimately fall. If they fail to appreciate the advantages which it holds out to them, and rally not with good will about it, it must eventually fall a victim to the jealousy with which every institution bearing the slightest tinge of nationality in this country is regarded. On them must eventually rest the responsibility of leaving their country without any School of Jurisprudence,-a reproach to which England alone of civilised countries is liable, and from which we would fain exempt our own land. To them the opportunity is held out of assisting the growth of such an institution in their country; on them alone must light the shame of its blight, if in consequence of their neglect (absit omen) it should fail to attain its well deserved meed of success.

THE RAMBLER.

"Come hither, ho! my pretty boy! upon this bank recline.
Here pleasantly above our heads the honeysuckles twine;
Beside us spring the primrose pale, the graceful daffodil,
Nor sweeter than thy fragrant breath the odours they distil.
Thou seemest amid the flowers to be a thing of scent and bloom;
Like them, thy leafy consorts, decked with beauty and perfume;
The azure of yon cloudless heaven is deepened in thine eye,
And with the tendril's lithest play thy glossy ringlets vie.
Come tell me, child, for o'er my head hath faded many a year
Since, where those trellissed cottages in scattered groups appear,
Thro' long green fields I wandered with a boyish heart as light
As if the sun of opening life could never set in night.

My hair was like the raven then, my tears could almost start,
To think-alas! its blackness now seems gathered round my heart;
But say whose fairy homes are those that rise on either hand,
Mid clustering flowers, the aliens sweet of many a sunny land.”

So late amid the solitude the cottages had grown,

Their tale of years that lovely child might number by his own;
Their owners had been few-kind friends and young companions dear,
Yet brief as was the register-t'was blotted with a tear.

The gentle hand whose skill had led the jasmine o'er the wall-
Alas! 'twas pulseless ere the bells to autumn blast could fall,

And one, the maid, whose mirthful laugh brought joy where'er she came—
Hush! even her mother hears no more sweet music in her name.

Oh death! and shame! thou sterner blight, that even from the grave
Dost pluck the frail memorial leaf, lorn sorrow loves to save,

I dreamed not in the verdure of this new and pleasant place,
Even here my stricken soul should weep to find your withering trace.
My humbled heart the lesson takes ;-Dread Power, that from its birth
Hast poured all shapes of loveliness, in myriads, o'er the earth;
Then left them perishing, to waste, and fertilize the clay,
And fillest their place, exhaustless still, with myriads bright as they.
Lift up, Supreme! my wakening soul; oh burst each earth-born tie!
Binding to frail and transient things that glitter but to die;
Exalt my hopes to things that shine immortally above,
Bright as thy own eternal truth, and endless as thy love.

C.

THE KING AND THE TROUBADOUR.

ROMANCE.

BY WILLIAM DOWE.

The tradition of the imprisonment and release of King Richard I. of England has been long dear to romance. About the year 1193, at the close of the Eastern Crusade, alone, or but slightly attended, he is said to have set out on his return home, in the dress of a Palmer, his way lying through the dominions of Austria. He was seized and imprisoned by Duke Leopold, and afterwards delivered up to Henry the Sixth, Emperor of Germany. The places of his seizure and confinement have been matters of much uncertainty and discussion. Some assert that he was arrested at Ratisbon, and sent to one of the imperial castles in the Tyrol. Others, with a greater show of probability, contend that he was taken prisoner near Vienna, and shut up in the strong fortress of Dornstein, or Durrenstein, whose magnificent ruins, at this day, form an interesting feature in the scenery of the Danube. The part taken by Blondel is thus related by an ancient author: "He (the king) had trained up in his court, a rimer or minstrill called Blundell de Nesle, who (saith the manuscript of old Poesies, and an auncient manuscript French Chronicle) being so long without sight of his lord, his life seemed wearisome to him, and he became confounded with melancholy. Knowne it was that he came back from the Holy Land, but none could tell in what country he arrived. Whereupon, this Blundel, resolving to make search for him in many countries, but he would hear some news of him -Mons. Favine's Treatise of Honour and Knighthood, translated, London, 1623.

It was a gallant troubadour,

And sad he seemed, and travel-sore; His harp he carried by his side,

PART I.

And, Palmer-wise, a staff he bore; Valley and mount, since dawn of day, For many a league, he journeyed o'er; And noon was past, and o'er the land Shadows of evening were at hand.

Then firmer fell the minstrel's foot,
And brighter grew the minstrel's eye,
As strong in its embattled walls,

Arose a guarded fortress nigh:
Barren and steep, its craggy site

Rose o'er the plain, where, sweeping by,
He marked a rapid river run,
Broad glimmering in the evening sun.

Why gazed he on that fortalice?

But slender promise was expressed,
In the still sternness of the place,
Of shelter fair for way-worn guest,
Or aught of revelry or cheer

Which minstrel ever loves the best.
What went the wanderer there to see,
By that grim fortress? Who was he?

Blondel de Nesle! ah! woe the chance
Which sent him thus a pilgrim forth:
No love of change, no love of song,

No heart of hope attuned to mirth
His journey cheered,-no promise bright
Of tourney-strife or festal hearth;
But grief and doubt were round his way:
The minstrel was no longer gay.

Yet, midst his brothers of the harp,
Erst while the blithest he of all;
For gests, or glee, or gay romaunt,
In kingly court, or baron's hall,
What bard so known, so prized as he,

From Notre Dame to Rouncival?
Even good King Richard, some did say,
Owned him his master in the lay.

The first and favoured minstrel he,

Of him, that famous Christian king,
Who too could weave the roundel rhime,
And sweep the light harp's merry string,
To ladye-love and battle deed,

And all that harper loves to sing;
For dear the gentle, joyous art
To Richard of the Lion Heart!

Ne'er to more princely paladin

Was vowed the love of grateful bard;
The pleasant eye, the courteous heart,
The hand still open to reward;
On throne of state, in fighting field,
The minstrel's honour, and his guard;
At revel-board, in social hour,
His joy, frank, brother-troubadour.

But days of revelry were gone:

From mighty warfare waged remote, In Paynim lands beyond the sea,

The king came not again; nor aught Of certainty was found to show

Of his far sojourn, or his lot. Rumours were heard abroad, and there The true and false commingled were.

When war was o'er in Paynimrie,

And weary warriors sought the west,
"Twas said, the stout, courageous king,
In garb of wandering palmer drest,
Set forth alone; for much he loved
The freedom of adventurous quest,
The toil, the peril, and the chance,
With all the soul of old romance.

And then, 'twas said, the island chief,
In palmer weed disguised in vain,
On Hunnish or on Austrian ground,
By robber knight or suzerain,
For hate of feud, or ransom prize,

Was done to death, or haply ta'en
To some unheard of dungeon hold:
Such was the tale which rumour told.

All Christendom with shame did chide
The red-cross champion's dubious fate;
And Englishmen, with ire and grief,
His tardy coming did await;

Then did he leave his home-alas!
It was no longer home; away
All saddened, but sustained, he fared
Through storm and sunshine many a day:
And, as his journey stretched afar,

By hamlet, castle, and abbaye,
For cheer and welcome did he pay
With plaintive tale or roundelay.

"Twere long to tell his devious track
Thro' places famous in romance,
By vintage vales and castled hills,

Throughout Armorica and France;
While tale or token came there none,
For wakeful ear or watchful glance,
To point him onward, or to show
A solace for his weary woe.

Then, o'er the fair and famous Rhine,
The minstrel trod the German land;
By many a fortress, frowning stern,
Where robber graafs, in rude command,

And spouse and brother mourned; but ah! The spoil of rapine freely kept,

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Before the chivalry of France,
Before the lance-knights of Almayne,
Before the keen Italian spears,

Amid the foeman's arrowy rain,
England's bold king, in face of all,

The bridle on his destrier's mane, His peerage round him, leads the charge, Beneath the banner of St. George.

And where the strife still hottest burns,
And where the wildest roll afar
Battle's ten thousand sounds, and where
The frantic Paynims mightiest are,-
Even where their myriads densest press
Round their great Soldan's scymetar,
His Norman battle-axe breaks in,
His loud voice thunders o'er the din.

So wrought the dream that, as he lay, The captive's brow and cheek grew flushed;

His hands were clenched, his breath came short,

As though to mortal strife he rushed:Anon the troubled moment passed,

And the subsiding heart was hushed; While o'er his dream's mysterious glass The changing visions rise and pass.

There is another scene:-he seems
Again in kingly state to be,
In merry England's palace homes,

Or halls of knightly Normandie. Gallants are there, with spurs of gold, And high-born ladies, fair to see, And welcome harpers, joyous all, Make glad the royal banquet hall.

Again he hears each wonted song
That cheered the festal hours of yore;
And far more sweetly o'er his soul,

Than e'er in thought or dream before, One lay of noble Spanish knight,

And pitying daughter of the Moor Comes, in familiar tones, and clear Thro' his dim dungeon floating near.

He woke and deemed he slept, and dreamed:

For, lo! the self-same music rung Still in his ears,-awhile he paused With beating heart, nor doubted long: Up rose the captive from his couch; It was no visionary song,- [tale,That well-known harp, and voice, and Nay, can it be?-it is De Nesle!

Yet stay; were certain tidings none

To lead the minstrel's footsteps there; And not in wonted track of those

That on the minstrel's errand fare, That fortress lay: still, sadly sweet, A simple, rude, and plaintive air, Oft heard in Berengaria's bower, Rose from beneath his prison tower.

And dost thou sleep, the ladye said,
Within thy tower so high?
Or dost thou hear my song to-night,
From my low lattice nigh?
My father he has lands so broad,
And gold and jewels store,
And castles nine, where, in each one,
Lie christian knights a score.

But I would give the lands so broad,
And gold and jewels free,

And castles nine, to bid thee forth,
And fairly mount, and flee.

But the stout warders watch too well,
Alas, and woe is me! [knight,
Now what should I do, young Christian
So mote I set thee free?

"Yes, it is he, my faithful knave!"

With joyful flush the monarch cried. Then from the wall his harp he took ;

With eager hands the strings he tried; Then paused, and while beneath the wall

The viewless minstrel's accents died, He bore the strain's response, and sung, Thus, in the old Provençal tongue :

Gramercy, evermore, ladye,
For thy dear love to me:
For this, in my oraisons, long,
Remembered thou shalt be.
Thy father's Moorish jailors, ladye,
They watch by night and by day,
And from this tower I ne'er might hope
By sleight to flee away.

But if thou would'st restore me back
Unto my own countrie,
Send tidings of my piteous plight

To friends beyond the sea;
That so, at least, for price of gold,
Thy sire may set me free:
So shall I find my home and kith,
And long remember thee.

The song was o'er; the dark night fell. His mission done, his heart at ease, Swift went the happy troubadour, Homeward, athwart the narrow seas. Of England's wealthy ransom paid,

And her brave monarch's glad release From durance drear in foreign hold, In the old chronicles are told.

Once more in Windsor's royal towers,
Mid all his courtly train, full well,
While sat one favoured minstrel by,
The merry monarch loved to tell
Of that lone eve and well-known song,
And blithe surprise in prison-cell.-
To gentle listeners every one,
Health and God-speed: my tale is done.

Cork, 1842.

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