During the time of the violent struggles we have alluded to, there stood between the town of Fairford and the little village of Marston Maisey, in Gloucestershire, a castellated building, held by Sir John Stapylton, a knight of an ancient and honourable family, whose ancestors had dwelt there from the time of the Norman conquest. He was devotedly attached to the house of Lancaster, and when an appeal to arms was made by the two factions, he sold the greater part of his estates and joined the standard of Henry, with his two sons, who were destined to return no more. At the battle of Mortimer's Cross, Robert, the eldest, was slain by an arrow, and the youngest fell at Hexham, while bravely defending his father from the attacks of a band of spearmen, led by Sir William Haviland, a knight of gigantic stature, who savagely slew him, after he had been beaten down and disarmed. In this battle, Sir John himself received several wounds, some of which were too serious to admit of his ever taking the field again. A cross-bow-bolt had shattered the bone of his left arm so dreadfully, that it was rendered entirely useless.

Vexed at being thus incapacitated, and

inwardly vowing to be revenged on the destroyer of his son, the bereaved father returned to his home almost heart-broken. Perhaps he would have sought his own death by rushing into the midst of his enemies, had not the recollection of his daughter, now fast growing up to womanhood, withheld him. Who would protect her in those unsettled times, if he should fall? It was the gentle Agnes who made his life supportable, and in her society he sought to bury for a time the recollection of his loss. But there were times when the remembrance of his first born's death flashed across his brain, and made the unhappy father curse the faction that had torn asunder the ties of friendship and kindred. Robert had died in his arms, as he vainly endeavoured to pluck the arrow from his breast, and Edward was struck, mangled and bleeding, to the ground before his face.

The remembrance of those scenes would

often recur, when the pain of his many wounds had occasioned a temporary delirium; and nought but the attentions of his beloved child could soothe his mind, and make existence supportable. Beautiful she was,-fit subject for a poet's pen or

painter's pencil; and her mind was fitted for such a shrine. Although she had not numbered twenty summers, there lacked not wealthy suitors for such a perfection. Her father was a man of great learning for that rude age, when some of England's stoutest knights could neither read or write; but he was not the less skilled in warlike exercises, and had done good service on the part of the weak-minded Henry and his amazon Queen; indeed this had considerably reduced his possessions, and, when he returned home, the coldness of those of his neighbours, who had not taken part in the quarrel, stung him to the quick. But he concealed his indignation, and appeared but little abroad, seldom venturing to leave his estate, unless upon particular occasions.

Several years had elapsed since the death of his sons, during which time the deadly feuds of the Roses had raged with unabated fury. At length the Yorkists prevailed, and Henry was in their power. Not long after, Queen Margaret landed in England, accompanied by her son, resolving to try the issue of another battle, and being encamped near Tewksbury she waited the approach of Edward.

Sir John had heard of the landing of the Queen, and although he forgot not the heavy losses he had sustained by espousing her cause, he would have gladly joined her standard, had not his wounds rendered him incapable of bearing arms. Knight was well aware that a battle must be fought as soon as the two armies met each other, and he waited anxiously for the result of the combat.

The

One evening, in the month of May, Sir John sat in a small room, which he used as a study: he had once or twice attempted to read, but the agitation of his mind would not allow him. His jewelled fingers held down the leaves of a splendidly illuminated book, but his eye wandered from the page, and glanced sorrowfully on a suit of battered armour, which stood in one corner of the room. A lance, a sword, and a mace hung against the wall; they had been once wielded by a vigorous and skilful hand, but were now to be used by their possessor no more! He thought on the time when he had vaulted on his horse amidst the shouts of his retainers, armed in that harness which he was never to fill again he thought also on the fate of his two sons, and then on his only remaining child, his beautiful and virtuous Agnes: no marvel that his book was unheeded. He sat for some time in this mood, until night had closed in, when the clatter of horses' hoofs struck on his ear. He listened attentively. Had the battle been fought?-It might be a party of the con

querors come to burn and spoil his dwelling no, it was a single horseman. Scarce had the thoughts risen in his mind, when a servant entered, and informed him that a traveller waited without, requiring a night's shelter under his roof, having been attacked by a band of men, who had slain his servant. The Knight commanded them to show the stranger every attention, and having descended into the hall, he welcomed him with much courtesy.

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In answer to Sir John's inquiries, the stranger, in a few words, informed him that his name was Godfrey Haviland, and that he was on his way to Cirencester, when he was waylaid by a party of men, who killed his only attendant, and that he escaped through the fleetness of his horse. Ay, ay," said Sir John, some of the cursed fore-riders belonging to one of the armies which must now lie in the neighbourhood; but, I hope, Sir, they have not despoiled you of any valuables?" No, nothing, save a jerkin and hose, which my poor knave had strapped behind him."

"Twas lucky that you escaped with your life, Sir; these are unsettled times, and the strongest arm takes most. What ho! Will, a flagon of Malmsey, and-a pasty for my guest."

In a few minutes a table was spread, and a venison pasty, together with a large gammon of bacon, and a flagon of wine, was set before the stranger, who eat heartily. Having finished his repast, he begged to know the name of his entertainer.

On the Knight's replying to this ques tion, the stranger's face was flushed for a moment, and then turned deadly pale; but Sir John noticed it not, and desired a servant to bid the Lady Agnes attend him. She shortly entered, and was introduced by her father as his daughter,

his sole remaining child. The breast of the stranger heaved, and a burning blush passed across his fine and manly countenance, but the Knight attributed this to bashfulness; his guest was but a youth, and had, perhaps, been little in the company of females; but Haviland's emotion was occasioned by a far different feeling. He knew that his father, Sir William Haviland, was the man who had slain the son of his now kind and hospitable entertainer, whose hall now sheltered him in a time of danger and uncertainty.

It was fortunate that Sir John knew not the name of the destroyer of his son, or his dwelling might have been a scene of murder, but he had never learnt the name and title of the man who had slain his bov.

The beauty of Agnes made a strong

impression on young Haviland, who more than ever regretted the fierce rashness of his father. He saw clearly that there was little hope of a union with the family who had suffered such a loss by the hand of his parent, and when night arrived, he retired to rest, his mind disturbed by a multitude of painful reflections. Sleep fled his couch, and when morning dawned he arose unrefreshed. After dressing himself, and preparing for his departure, he passed out from his chamber, when the first object he beheld was Agnes.

Great was his astonishment on perceiving her at so early an hour; but ere he had spoken, she moved softly away on tiptoe and waved her hand. He followed her until she had descended into a lower apartment, when the maiden, while her heart throbbed wildly, said

"Fly from this place if you value your life, Sir! you are known to one of my father's men.'

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Known, dearest lady," faltered Haviland.

66 Ay, known as the son of the fierce man who destroyed my poor brother," replied Agnes, while her blue eyes swam with tears; "but fly, if you would not suffer a dreadful death. My maid told me yesterday, that our falconer, who was with my father at Hexham, swore that you are the son of Sir William Haviland!-'twill soon reach my father's

ears.

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Oh, dearest lady, how shall I express my gratitude-but, believe me, I had no share in your brother's death."

"Talk not of that now, quick to the stables, and ride hard, for my father will soon be stirring.'

"But how shall I pass the gate ?" "I have the keys here-haste, or you will be lost."

As she spoke, she led the way to the stables, and Haviland, with all haste, saddled his horse.

The gates were cautiously unlocked. He pressed the hand of Agnes to his lips, while his sobs impeded his voice; but the danger was great, and vaulting on his steed, he faltered" farewell," and soon left the hall behind him.

Leaving Godfrey Haviland on his way, we must return to Stapylton Hall.

As the morning advanced the old Knight arose, and breakfast being laid in a small room adjoining his study, he waited the presence of his guest. Agnes shortly entered, pale and dejected.

'Why what ails thee, my child?" said Sir John, as he kissed her blanched cheek, thou hast been weeping.". Agnes pleaded illness, and took her seat by her father, who wondered at the ab

sence of his guest. After waiting for some time, a servant was sent to rouse him from his slumbers, when his flight was discovered.

The old Knight was astonished beyond measure at the disappearance of his guest, and concluding that he was some adventurer who had paid him a visit with a sinister intention, he desired his servants to look to the plate and other valuables; when, in the midst of the confusion, the falconer came, and informed his master that he had entertained the son of his deadly foe.

Words cannot paint the astonishment and chagrin of Sir John upon receiving this intelligence. He stood for some moments as if paralized, then stamping furiously on the floor, he desired that his park-keeper should attend him, and striding into his study, slammed to the door with great violence. Agnes, alarmed for the safety of the fugitive, to whose flight she had been a party, flew to her chamber to conceal her agitation.

In the mean time, her father paced the room with hurried step. He stopped at times and looked on his battered harness, then struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, and vented his rage in a low, half-stiffed voice, by excitement rendered inarticulate, and resembling the growl of an angry wolf. A tap at the door of the study roused him.

"Enter," he cried; and a man strode into the room, cap in hand; he was rather under the ordinary height, but broadshouldered and muscular. His face full, but distinctly marked, and his hair cut quite close to his head. His neck was bare and brawny, and his face, by constant exposure to the weather, had become of a dark brown. a coarse tunic of green, with trunk hose of red serge, and buskins of buff leather. A short sword hung at his belt, which was buckled tight round his body. His whole appearance bespoke the perfect woodsman.

His dress was

"Wat Fluister," said the Knight," thou hast been a faithful follower of mine for these twenty years-Harkee, I have need of thy assistance; quick, don thy jazerant."+

"I have left it with Will the armourer, at Fairford, to be mended," said Wat.

"Take this then," reaching a jazerant from the wall :-" haste, and on with it; and look ye, take your bow and three of your best shafts; begone! and come to me as soon as thou art ready.”

JAZERANT.-A frock of twisted or linked mail, without sleeves, somewhat lighter than the hauberk worn by the knights.

Wat left the room, but in a few minutes returned. He had put on the Knight's mailed coat, and a sallet or light iron cap. He carried his bow in his hand, and bore on his elbow a small target or buckler, like those worn by the archers of that period.

"That's my nimble servitor," said the Knight; "and now saddle Cob, my gelding, take the blood hound, and ride after the fellow who left this morning :-and harkee, Wat," in a suppressed voice, 66 see that he travel no more-thou knowest what I mean? thou hast sharp shafts, and a trusty bow-give him not the same 'vantage as thou would'st thine own enemy-he is mine! shoot him from his horse, ere he knows that thou art near him!"

Wat stopped not a moment to question this command. It was enough that it was given by his master, whose word with him was law. In less than five minutes he passed out on the Knight's own horse, at full speed, followed by the hound. After riding a short distance, Wat distinguished the marks of the fugitive's horse's hoofs, and the dog was immediately laid on. He well knew that Haviland would find it difficult to pick his way over a part of the country he was unacquainted with, and he doubted not that he should come up with him before he had got any dis

tance.

Godfrey Haviland was not far off. He heard the yelp of the dog, and a cold tremor ran through his frame, as he discovered that he was tracked. Wat, though he could not see his victim, knew well that he was not far off, he therefore increased his pace, and moved on rapidly. Haviland, in the mean time, had struck out of the road, and gallopped across the country. It was not long before a brook stopped his progress: he beheld it with joy, as he well knew it was the only refuge from the enemy that tracked him.

"Now, my good steed," said he, "bear thy master through this trial, or he will never press thy trusty sides again."

He plunged into the brook as he spoke. The stream was swollen, but the noble animal swam with its master for several yards, when the water became shallower. Fearing to land again, Haviland dashed down the stream, which ran through a wood at a little distance. He arrived there just in time to escape from the view of his pursuers, who came up to the brook as Haviland entered the wood. Wat swore deeply on finding that he was baulked.

"Ah! 'tis of no use, Fangs," said he to the dog, as he saw the animal run up and down the bank of the stream. "We

have been tracking an old hand, let us both return and prepare our backs for the cudgel."

After several endeavours to regain the scent, Wat turned his horse's head towards home. He soon reached the hall, and having replaced Cob in the stable, he repaired to Sir John's apartment. "Well, Wat," said the Knight eagerly, "hast thou revenged me?"

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No," replied he, sullenly, scarce knowing what to say-" he has 'scaped." "Ha! thou knave!" cried Sir John, starting on his feet," escaped, did'st thou say?-Then am I foiled, and through thy mischance-There, villain, take thy guerdon."

As he spoke, he struck Wat a violent blow on his broad chest, which, spite of the jazerant he wore, made the woodsman stagger, and proved that the Knight had one powerful arm left. The blood mounted in Wat's dark face-his eyes flashed fire, and with a thrust of his hand he sent the Knight reeling to the wall-then grasped the handle of his short sword, which he half unsheathed; but it fell back harmlessly in its scabbard; its wearer's head sunk upon his breast-a tear fell on the floor, but the foot of the woodsman was quickly drawn over it, and he stood motionless for several moments without speaking.

"Wat," said the Knight, after a long pause, "thou hast raised thy hand against thy master, and

"I have," interrupted Wat, "and will not the poor worm turn on the foot that treads it down?-I am your vassal, 'tis true; I have eaten of your bread these twenty years, and ne'er took blow before. You are my master, or your blood should wash this floor."

"These are high words for one of thy stamp," said the Knight, in a tone of remonstrance, fearing to anger the resolute woodsman, whose temper was always mild and gentle, except when roused."A rope and a swing from the wall would have been thy fate, if thou had'st some masters; but thou hast served me faithfully

"And been struck like a dog in return," said Wat.

"Nay, nay, Wat, dwell not on thatbut how came the springald to escape?" "He made for the brook, and baulked the hound-'twas no fault of mine."

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Well, well," continued the Knight, in a calmer tone, "it can't be helped now; but I am vexed at his escape. His father slew my Edward when the poor boy lay on the ground disarmed and helpless.'

Sir John drew his hand across his face. as he spoke, and wiped the tear away

which hung on his eyelid. Wat's stern nature was softened.

"My honoured master," said he, "would I had known that yesternightyou should have been revenged.'

"I know thee, Wat-I know thee," said the Knight, "and methinks thou hast had time to know thy master, and bear with him when he speaks thee harshly. Here, let this make amends."

But the Robin with his eye of jet,

Who pipes from the bare boughs merrily To the Primrose pale and Violet,

He is the dearest song to me.

THE DYING NUN.

(For the Olio.)

Reclining in her last faint sleep she lay.
And as the moon in mournful sadness kissed

Was near that couch, the heav'n bound thought to mar;

"I will not take it, Sir John," he said, my master's love and protection is the only wage I crave.

He then abruptly left the room, before the Knight had time to reply.

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Strange fellow!" exclaimed Sir John, "there's not a pampered knave on my poor estate that possesses half thy feeling thou, at least, art faithful."

We must now return to Godfrey Haviland, whom we left, after he had baffled his pursuer. He held on his way at full speed until he had quite cleared the wood, when he resolved at all hazard to inquire of the next person he met, the way to the town of Tewkesbury. It was not long before he obtained the necessary information, and found that he had deviated considerably from the road. After an hour's hard riding, he came in sight of the town, and beheld the tents of the Lancastrian forces spread over the fields; while from one of the largest, the Queen's banner floated in the breeze. Various bodies of soldiers were in motion, and their armour and weapons flashed brightly in the morn ing's sun, which shone resplendent on the Coteswold hills, that rose above the extensive landscape, covered with the verdure of spring. (To be Continued.)

THE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN
BOWER.

The Song in Miss Mitford's New Tragedy of
Rienzi.

The Red Rose is Queen of the Garden Bower, That glows in the sun at noon,

And the Lady Lily's the fairest flow'r

That swings her white bells in the breeze of

June;

But they who come mid frost and flood,

Peeping from bank or root of tree,

The Primrose and the Violet bud,
They are the dearest flow'rs to me.

The Nightingale's is the sweetest song
That ever the Rose has heard,

And when the Lark sings the clouds among,
The Lily looks up to the heavenly bird;

Swell'd into deepriess in the dreamy air,
But while the mellow organ's distant strain
She slept, and prayed the while sweet whis.
pering

Responses. Then anon there came a pause,
Of that beseeming, wherein angels hold
Their bland communings; 'twas a lapse that

song.

The waning spirit, solving into air,
In heaven's own silvery brightness graced,
In numbers soft as e'er made sorrow smile,
She bids her last good-bye to earthly beauty,
Chanting its lasting lullaby into the grave.
Adieu awhile thou dear departed shade!
In heav'ns dominions, haply, thou may'st rank
With those, who in the hour of doom surround
The mercy seat, and heav'ns almighty wrath
Sooth down to bland forgiveness. Oh, if so,
And I that heard thee sing thy soul away,
Sweet recognition make to heav'n for grace,
Not daring to look up, I'll sue to thee
For interceding meed, and in thy smile
Welcome long alien'd hope, nor know despair.
W. MORLEY.

LOVE.

(For the Olio.)

Ye bachelors! pr'ythee, beware! For Love wears a varied disguise! He lurks in the tresses of hair,

And floats in the soul of the eyes;

He sleeps in the dimples of cheeks, That blush with his beautiful glow; On lips he a pleasure-ground seeks,

And feeds on the kiss they bestow.

He makes Beauty's movement his sun,
Or romps with her shade on the ground;
Wherever her fairy feet run

The sly young attendant is found.

On down of the bosom that swells,
With fancies his lessons impart;

In each many beauty he dwells,

But lives, like a thought, in the heart. T.