He laid his head on that lady's knee,

An' he lookit as somebody he would name, An' there was a language in his howe e'e

That was stronger than a tongue could frame.

She fed him wi' the milk an' the bread,

An' ilka good thing that he wad hae; He lickit her hand, he coured his head, Then slowly, slowly, he slunkered away.

But she has eyed her fause knight's hound,
An'a' to see where he wad gae:

He whined, an' he howled, an' lookit around,
Then slowly, slowly he trudged away.

Then she's casten aff her coal-black shoon,

An' her bonnie silken hose, sae glancin' an' sheen, She kiltit her wilye coat an broidered gown, An' away she has linkit over the green.

She followed the hound owre muirs an' rocks,
Through mony a dell an' dowie glen,

Till frae her brow an' bonnie goud locks,
The dew dreepit down like the drops o' rain.

An' ay she said, "My love may be hid,
An' darena come to the castle to me;
But him I will find and dearly I'll chide,
For lack o' stout heart an' courtesye.

"But ae kind press to his manly breast, An' ae kind kiss in the moorland glen, Will weel atone for a' that is past.

O wae to the paukie snares o' men!"

An' aye she eyed the gray sloth-hound,
As he windit owre Deadwater fell,
Till he came to the den wi' the moss inbound,
An' O, but it kythed a lonesome dell!

An' he waggit his tail, an' he fawned about,
Then he coured him down sae wearilye;
"Ah! yon's my love, I hae found him out,
He's lying waiting in the dell for me.

"To meet a knight near the fall of night

Alone in this untrodden wild,

It scarcely becomes a lady bright,

But I'll vow that the hound my steps beguiled."

Alak! whatever a maiden may say,

True has't been said, an' aften been sung,
The e'e her heart's love will betray,

An' the secret will sirple frae her tongue.

"What ails my love, that he looks nae roun',
A lady's stately step to view;

Ah me! I hae neither stockings nor shoon,

An' my feet are sae white wi' the moorland dew!

"Sae sound as he sleeps in his hunting gear,

To waken him great pity would be;

Deaf is the man that caresna to hear,
An' blind is he wha wantsna to see."

Sae saftly she treads the wee green swaird,
Wi' the lichens an' the ling a' fringed around.
"My e'en are darkened wi' some wul-weird,
What ails my love, he sleeps sae sound."

She gae ae look, she needit but ane,

For it left nae sweet uncertaintye;
She saw a wound through his shoulder bane,
An' in his brave breast two or three.

There wasna sic e'en on the Border green,

As the piercing e'en o' Sir David Graeme;
She glisked wi' her e'e where these e'en should be,
But the raven had been there afore she came.

There's a cloud that fa's darker than the night,
An' darkly on that lady it came;

There's a sleep as deep as the sleep outright,—
Tis without a feeling or a name.

"Tis a dull an' a dreamless lethargye,
For the spirit strays owre vale an' hill,
An' the bosom is left a vacancy,

VOL. III.

An' when it comes back it is darker still.

2 H

O shepherd, lift that comely corpse,

Well may you see no wound is there,
There's a faint rose mid the bright dew drops,
An' they have not wet her glossy hair.

There's a lady has lived in Howswood tower,
'Tis seven years past on St Lambert's day,
An' aye when comes the vesper hour

66

These words an' no more can she say.

They slew my love on the wild Swaird green,
As he was on his way to me,

An' the ravens picked his bonnie blue e’en,

An' the tongue that was formed for courtesye.

"My brothers they slew my comely knight,
An' his grave is red blood to the brim

I thought to have slept out the lang, lang night,
But they've wakened me, an' wakened not him!"

Oswald

KING OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

SWALD, it appears, was inferior only to St. Cuthbert, in working Miracles, for Bede gravely tells us, that a sick horse was once cured at the place of his interment. The same author informs us, that the King's right hand had the peculiar privilege of not being liable to corruption, from the following circumstance: sitting down to dinner on Easter day, and being told that an immense number of poor people were without, waiting for his charity, he not only ordered his part of the banquet to be divided amongst them, but even commanded a large silver dish to be cut in pieces, that each might receive a part of it. Adrian, who happened to be present, was so delighted with his patron's munificence, that seizing his right hand he exclamed "May this hand never decay." A wish, which according to Bede, was strictly accomplished.-Sharp's Hartlepool.

The Hiltons of Hilton Castle.

PRINCIPALLY FROM SURTEES'S HISTORY OF DURHAM.

NE proof, perhaps, of the high antiquity of the Hiltons, is the number of popular traditions, which, in various ways, account for their origin. There is no improbability (though it is not matter proven) in supposing that the local establishment of the family extended above the Norman æra; yet it might be difficult to say which coat Adam Hilton, the liege of king Athelstan, caused to be sculptured above the portal of St. Hilda, or to be engraved on the massy silver crucifix which he presented to the Abbess of the Peninsula. Romanus, the knight of Hilton, (whose very name is unknown to these early Romancers) might be Saxon, Dane, or Norman; or, according to a wild legend alluded to in Sharp's Hartlepool,* he might with equal ease spring from a Northern Rover, who wooed and won "a fair young Saxon Dame, with all her lands and towers," under the disguise of one of Odin's Ravens. The account of the matter given below is certainly not offered as any portion of the Hilton's evidence.

*The origin of the family of Hilton is lost in the clouds of remote antiquity. It has been stated, that Adam de Hilton, living in the time of king Atheistan, gave to the monastery of Hartlepool, a pix or crucifix, which was in weight twenty-five ounces in silver, and caused his arms to be engraven on it, argent, two bars azure. A legendary tale resting solely on oral tradition, states, that a raven flew from the North, and, perching on the turrets of a tower seated on the Wear, received the embraces of a Saxon lady, whom her father, a powerful abthane, had there confined to protect her from the approaches of a Danish nobleman, by which may possibly be adumbrated the origin of the family springing from a mixture of Danish and Saxon blood. The author, who wishes to adhere to facts, instead of presenting to the reader a fanciful pedigree, is glad to glean the isolated fragments which have survived the wreck of ages, and though the above tales are given, yet it is unnecessary to add any caution respecting their authenticity, although they may envelope some allusion which is now hid in the obscurity of fabulous legend.

After a long series of warlike barons, who were ready on all occasions to shed their

In reference to the story of the Northern Rover, the following stanzas are added:

IS fetters of ice the broad Baltic is breaking,

In the deep glens of Denmark sweet summer is
waking,

And, blushing amidst her pavilion of snows,
Discloses her chalice, the bright Lapland rose.

The winds in the caverns of winter are bound,

Yet the leaves that the tempest has strewn on the ground,
Are whirling in magical eddies around.

For deep in the forest where wild flow'rs are blushing,
Where the stream from its cistern of rock-spar is gushing,
The magic of Lapland the wild winds is hushing.
Why slumbers the storm in the caves of the North ?
When, when shall the carrier of Odin go forth?
Loud, loud laugh'd the Hags, as the dark Raven flew;
They had sprinkled his wings with the mirk midnight dew
That was brush'd in Blockula from cypress and yew.
That Raven in its charmed breast

Bears a sprite that knows no rest-
(When Odin's darts in darkness hurl'd,
Scatter'd lightnings through the world,

blood in the service of their country, the estate devolved upon Henry Hilton, esq. a man of strange and melancholy disposition, who, deserting the seat of his ancestors, fled to bury himself in the privacy of Michell Grove, in Sussex, where he lived and died in total seclusion. The last male heir of the elder branch of this ancient and honorable family was John Hilton, esq. His portrait is still preserved at Hilton, let into a panel over the fire place in the great dining room. It represents a gentleman of middle age, with blue eyes, light hair, fair complexion, somewhat high cheek bones, of a placid and benevolent countenance, and open aspect. There were in the same house, a considerable number of other family portraits, all bearing a striking resemblance to each other. One in particular, represents a lady, young and handsome, of whom, strange to say, there is another portrait exhibiting her in a state of mental derangement.

"Oh! I am altered since you saw me last,

And time has written strange misfeatures on my cheek;

That rosy blush lap't in a lily veil,

Is now with Morphew overgrown and pale."

Sharp's Hartlepool, page 79 and 167.