It is a feat of strange conceit
That fills us with alarms:
Oh seek about, and find her out,
And send her to our arms."
V.
And who is he this letter reads
With tears the words atween?
Yea! even he she had sought to see,
The sair-sought Ballenden.
Yet little little had he thought,
When away in that far countrie,
That a look she had got of a humble Scot
Would ever remembered be.
But tho' he had deemed himself forgot
By one so far away,
Her image had still, against his will,
Him haunted night and day.
And when he laid him on his bed,
And sair inclined to sleep,
That face would still, against his will,
Its holy vigil keep.
Oh gentle youth, thou little thought,
When away in our north countrie,
That up and down, thro' all the town,
That ladye sought for thee.
And little little did thou wot
What in Euphan's room was seen,
Where, as she died, she whispering sighed,
"I die for Ballenden."[A]
[Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the
English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was
even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases
limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of
Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who,
having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the
hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and
beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without
ever having seen her.
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