Now plies on wood and wold his lawless trade,
Now in the fangs of justice wakes dismay'd.-

"Was that wild start of terror and despair, Those bursting eyeballs, and that wilder'd air, Signs of compunction for a murder'd hare? Do the locks bristle and the eyebrows arch, For grouse or partridge massacred in March?"

No, scoffer, no! Attend, and mark with awe,
There is no wicket in the gate of law!
He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar

That awful portal, must undo each bar;
Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride,
Will join to storm the breach, and force the barrier wide.

That ruffian, whom true men avoid and dread, Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call Black Ned, Was Edward Mansell once ;-the lightest heart, That ever play'd on holyday his part!

The leader he in every

The harvest-feast grew

Christmas game,

blither when he came,

And liveliest on the chords the bow did glance,
When Edward named the tune and led the dance.
Kind was his heart, his passions quick and strong,
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song;
And if he loved a gun, his father swore,

""Twas but a trick of youth would soon be o'er,

Himself had done the same some thirty years before."

But he whose humours spurn law's awful yoke, Must herd with those by whom law's bonds are broke, The common dread of justice soon allies

The clown, who robs the warren, or excise,
With sterner felons train'd to act more dread,
Even with the wretch by whom his fellow bled.
Then, as in plagues the foul contagions pass,
Leavening and festering the corrupted mass,—
Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual motives draw
Their hope impunity, their fear the law;

Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous the same,
Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfer'd game,
Flesh the young culprit, and example leads
To darker villany, and direr deeds.

Wild howl'd the wind the forest glades along, And oft the owl renew'd her dismal song; Around the spot where erst he felt the wound, Red William's spectre walk'd his midnight round. When o'er the swamp he cast his blighting look, From the green marshes of the stagnant brook The bittern's sullen shout the sedges shook! The wading moon, with storm-presaging gleam, Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam; The old Oak stoop'd his arms, then flung them high, Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brushwood sere, In Malwood-walk young Mansell watch'd the deer:

The fattest buck received his deadly shot

The watchful keeper heard, and sought the spot.
Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was their strife,
O'erpower'd at length the Outlaw drew his knife.
Next morn a corpse was found upon the fell-
The rest his waking agony may tell!

SONG.

Он, say not, my love, with that mortified air,
That your spring-time of pleasure is flown,
Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,
For those raptures that still are thine own.

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd,

'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round,

And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground,—

Enough, after absence to meet me again,
Thy steps still with ecstasy move;
Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
For me the kind language of love.

END OF VOLUME SIXTH.