RICHARD PLANTAGENET.

A LEGENDARY TALE.

“The work is done, the structure is complete,

Long may this produce of my humble toil Uninjur'd stand, and echo long repeat,

Round the dear walls, Benevolence and Moyle.**

So Richard spake, as he survey'd

The dwelling he had rais'd; And, in the fullness of his heart,

His gen'rous patron prais’d.

Hin Moyle o’erheard, whose wand’ring step

Chance guided had that way; The workman's mien he ey'd intent,

Then earnest thus did say:

“ My mind, I see, misgave me not,

My doubtings now are clear, Thou oughtest not, in poor attire,

“ To drudgery, and servile toil,

Thou could'st not be decreed
By birth and blood, but thereto wrought

By hard o'er-ruling need.

ço Is it not so ? That crimson glow,

That Alushes o'er thy cheek,
And down-cast eye, true answer give,

And thy tongue need not speak.

« Oft have I mark’d thee, when unseen

Thou thought'st thyself by all, What time the workman from his task

The ev'ning bell did call ?

“ Hast thou not shunn'd thy untaught mates,

And to some secret nook,
With drooping gait, and musing eye,

Thy lonely step betook ?

“ There hath not thy attention dwelt

Upon the letter'd page,
Lost, as it seemnd to all beside,

Like some sequester'd sage?

“ And wouldst thou not, with eager haste,

The precious volume hide, If sudden some intruder's

eye Thy musings hath descried ?

“ Oft have I deem'd thou couldst explore

The Greek and Roman page, And oft have yearn'd to view the theme,

That did thy hours engage.

“ But sorrow, greedy, grudging, coy,

Esteems of mighty price
Its treasur'd cares, and to the world

The scantiest share denies;

All as the Miser's heaped hoards,

To him alone confin'd,
They serve, at once, to sooth and pain

The wretched owner's mind,

“ Me had capricious fortune doom'd

Thine equal in degree,
Long, long ere now, I had desir’d

To know thine history :

“ But who their worldly honours wear

With meekness chaste and due, Decline to ask, lest the request

Should bear commandment's hue.

“ Yet now thy tongue hath spoke aloud

Thy grateful piety,
No longer be thy story kept

In painful secrecy

“ Give me to know thy dawn of life ;

Unfold, with simple truth,
Not to thy master, but thy friend,

The promise of thy youth.

« Now, late in life, 'tis time, I ween,

To give thy labours o'er ;
Thy well-worn implements lay by,

And drudge and toil no more.

“ Here shalt thou find a quiet rest,

For all thy days to come, And every comfort that

T'endear thy humble home.

may serve

“ Hast thou a wish, a hope to frame,

Beyond this neat abode?
Is there a good, a higher bliss,

By me may be bestow'd ?

“ Is there within thy aged breast

The smallest aching void ? “ Give me to know thy longings all,

And see them all supply'd.

“ All I entreat, in lieu, is this,

Unfold, with simple truth,
Not to thy master, but thy friend,

The promise of thy youth.”

So gen'rous Moyle intent bespake

The long enduring man,
Who rais’d, at length, his drooping head,

And, sighing, thus began :

RICHARD PLANTAGENET

RECITETH HIS TALE.

HARD

ARD task to any, but thyself, to tell

The story of my birth and treach'rous fate, Or paint the tumults in my breast that swell,

At recollection of my infant state !

Oft have I labour'd to forget my birth,

And check'd remembrance, when, in cruel wise, From time's abyss she would the tale draw forth,

Ard place my former self before my eyes.

Yet I complain not, tho' I feel anew,

All as I speak, fell fortune's bitter spite, Who once set affluence, grandeur, in my view,

Then churlish snatch'd them from my cheated sight.

And yet it may be-is-nay, must be best,

Whate’er heav'n's righteous laws for man ordain; Weak man! who lets one sigh invade his breast, For earthly grandeur, fugitive as vain!