For the bitter Puritans have sworn At curfew chime that day Young Martin's life-thread shall be shorn, Because he dared to pray As his fathers prayed ere he was born, In the old accustomed way. And Blanche has prayed with sobs and tears The sexton, deaf and old, That now first in so many years That bell may not be tolled; But he only answers, as half he hears, "My hand I shall not hold!" "Through all my life, in peace or strife, I've set that bell a-swing; The neighbours round expect its sound, Relief from toil to bring; Have done, I say! no use to pray, The curfew-bell must ring!" Then with a set and steadfast face She got her up the tower; And now within that dismal place She waits the fated hour, A-gazing on the hollow bass That bath such deadly power. The rope grows tight through all its strands, And with a sudden bound She has leapt aloft, and the small white hands The cruel tongue around Are clasped :-the sexton tolling stands,

Now to and fro the clapper swings, Her hands are bruised and bleeding, But still, with close-shut eyes she clings, Her agony unheeding ;- Never a note of curfew rings, And the minutes fast are speeding. The deed is done, her end is won, The bell stays in mid-air; With a strange smile she stands awhile, As past were all her care, Nor pain she heeds ;-anon, she speeds Adown the belfry stair. A stern, grim man with a piercing eye With his troop rides past amain, And "Cromwell! Cromwell !" is the cry,- Then up she springs, so fain To stay his course as he passes by, And grips at his bridle-rein. The steed is stayed, her tale is told; Soft grows that rugged face, And something clouds the eye so cold As he speaks the word of grace, And Martin loosed from bonds and hold Stoops to his love's embrace. And still as at the evening hour, With slow and solemn knell, The curfew tolls from Chertsey tower, Its ringing seems to tell Of brave Blanche Heriot, and the power Of love that nought can quell