It chanced that up the covert lane, A neighbour knight prick'd on to join And with him must Lord Julian go, He bit his lip, he wrung his glove, But pretext none could find or frame! It grieves me sore to think, to say, That names so seldom meet with Love, Yet Love wants courage without a name! Straight from the forest's skirt the trees From underneath its leafy screen, And from the twilight shade, You pass at once into a green, And there Lord Julian sate on steed; Stood knight and squire, and menial train; Against the leash the greyhounds strain ; The horses paw'd the ground. When up the alley green, Sir Hugh Lord Julian turn'd his steed half round.— "What! doth not Alice deign To accept your loving convoy, knight? With stifled tones the knight replied, I guess would scantly please your ear, "You sent betimes. Not yet unbarr'd Two stirrers only met my eyes, "I came unlook'd for: and, it seem'd, And found the daughter of Du Clos "But hush! the rest may wait. If lost, No great loss, I divine; And idle words will better suit A fair maid's lips than mine." "God's wrath! speak out, man," Julian cried, O'ermaster'd by the sudden smart ;— And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude, The knight his subtle shift pursued.— "Scowl not at me; command my skill, To lure your hawk back, if you will, But not a woman's heart. "Go! (said she) tell him,-slow is sure; I follow here a stronger lure, "The game, pardie, was full in sight, That then did, if I saw aright, The fair dame's eyes engage; For turning, as I took my ways, The last word of the traitor knight A youth, that ill his steed can guide ; That seems at once to laugh and chide― With sudden bound, beyond the boy, That regal front! those cheeks aglow ! Thou lovely child of old Du Clos! Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood, THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And his good sword rust;— HYMN TO THE EARTH. HEXAMETERS. EARTH! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother, Hail! O goddess, thrice hail! blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn thee! Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on your surges Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions. Travelling the vale with mine eyes-green meadows and lake with green island, Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in brightness, Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the mountain, Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom! [thy tresses, Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through VOL. II. 5 |