THE ROMANCE OF TENACHELLE.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

On panting steeds they hurry on,
Kildare, and Darcy’s lovely daughter—­
On panting steeds they hurry on;
To cross the Barrow’s water;
Within her father’s dungeon chained,
Kildare her gentle heart had gained;
Now love and she have broke his chain,
And he is free! is free again.

His cloak, by forest boughs is rent,
The long night’s toilsome journey showing;
His helm’s white plume is wet, and bent,
And backwards o’er his shoulders flowing;
Pale is the lovely lady’s cheek,
Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak;
And, feebly, tries she to sustain,
Her falling horse, with silken rein.

“Now, clasp thy fair arms round my neck,”
Kildare cried to the lovely lady;
“Thy weight black Memnon will not check,
Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;”
The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek;
The next, her arms are round his neck;
And placed before him on his horse,
They haste, together, on their course.

“Oh!  Gerald,” cried the lady fair,
Now backward o’er his shoulder gazing,
“I see Red Raymond, in our rear,
And Owen, Darcy’s banner raising—­
Mother of Mercy! now I see
My father, in their company;
Oh!  Gerald, leave me here, and fly,
Enough! enough! for one to die!”

“My own dear love; my own dear love!”
Kildare cried to the lovely lady,
“Fear not, black Memnon yet shall prove,
Than all their steeds, more swift and steady: 
But to guide well my gallant horse,
Tasks eye, and hand, and utmost force;
Then look for me, my love, and tell,
What see’st thou now at Tenachelle?”

“I see, I see,” the lady cried,
“Now bursting o’er its green banks narrow,
And through the valley spreading wide,
In one vast flood, the Barrow! 
The bridge of Tenachelle now seems,
A dark stripe o’er the rushing streams;
For nought above the flood is shown,
Except its parapet alone.”

“But can’st thou see,” Earl Gerald said,
“My faithful Gallowglasses standing? 
Waves the green plume on Milo’s head,
For me, at Tenachelle commanding?”
“No men are there,” the lady said,
“No living thing, no human aid;
The trees appear, like isles of green,
Nought else, through all the vale is seen.”

Deep agony through Gerald passed;
Oh! must she fall, the noble-hearted;
And must this morning prove their last,
By kinsmen and by friends deserted? 
Sure treason must have made its way,
Within the courts of Castle Ley;
And kept away the mail-clad ranks
He ordered to the Barrow’s banks.

“The chase comes fast,” the lady cries;
“Both whip and spur I see them plying;
Sir Robert Verdon foremost hies,
Through Regan’s forest flying;
Each moment on our course they gain,
Alas! why did I break thy chain,
And urge thee, from thy prison, here,
To make the mossy turf thy bier?”