I.

COME, LUCY! while 'tis morning hour, The woodland brook we needs must pass;

So, ere the sun assume his power,
We shelter in our poplar bower,
Where dew lies long upon the flower,
Though vanish'd from the velvet grass.
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge
May serve us for a silvan bridge;
For here, compell'd to disunite,
Round petty isles the runnels glide,
And chafing off their puny spite,
The shallow murmurers waste their

might, Yielding to footstep free and light A dry-shod pass from side to side.

II.

Nay, why this hesitating pause?
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws,
Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim?
Titania's foot without a slip,
Like thine, though timid, light, and slim,
From stone to stone might safely trip,
Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip
That binds her slipper's silken rim.
Or trust thy lover's strength: nor fear
That this same stalwart arm of mine,
Which could yon oak's prone trunk up-

rear,

Shall shrink beneath the burden dear

Of form so slender, light, and fine.— So-now, the danger dared at last, Look back, and smile at perils past!

III.

And now we reach the favourite glade, Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone, Where never harsher sounds invade,

To break affection's whispering tone,

Than the deep breeze that waves the shade,

Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat; Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, A place where lovers best may meet

Who would not that their love be seen. The boughs, that dim the summer sky, Shall hide us from each lurking spy,

That fain would spread the invidious
tale,

How Lucy of the lofty eye,
Noble in birth, in fortunes high,
She for whom lords and barons sigh,
Meets her poor Arthur in the dale.

IV.

How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh!

And why does Lucy shun mine eye?
Is it because that crimson draws
Its colour from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast,
She would not that her Arthur guess'd?
O! quicker far is lovers' ken

Than the dull glance of common men,
And, by strange sympathy, can spell
The thoughts the loved one will not tell!
And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met
The hues of pleasure and regret ;

Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow;

Well pleased that thou art Arthur s choice,

Yet shamed thine own is placed so
low:

Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek,
As if to meet the breeze's cooling;
Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak,
For Love, too, has his hours of
schooling.

ERE is the Maiden of mortal strain, t may match with the Baron of Triermain?

must be lovely, and constant, and kind,

y and pure, and humble of mind, he of cheer, and gentle of mood, rteous, and generous, and noble of blood

-ely as the sun's first ray,

en it breaks the clouds of an April day; stant and true as the widow'd dove, d as a minstrel that sings of love; e as the fountain in rocky cave, mere never sunbeam kiss'd the wave; mble as maiden that loves in vain, -ly as hermit's vesper strain; ntle as breeze that but whispers and dies,

t blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs;

urteous as monarch the morn he is crown'd,

nerous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground;

ble her blood as the currents that met the veins of the noblest Plantagenet— ch must her form be, her mood, and

her strain,

mat shall match with Sir Roland of

Triermain.

II.

Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,

is blood it was fever'd, his breathing was deep.

He had been pricking against the Scot, he foray was long, and the skirmish hot; is dinted helm and his buckler's plight

Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still, Harpers must lull him to his rest, With the slow soft tunes he loves the best, Till sleep sink down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill.

When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings,

Murmur'd from our melting strings,

And hush'd you to repose.
Had a harp-note sounded here,
It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh,

When she thinks her lover near.'
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall,
He kept guard in the outer-hall,-
"Since at eve our watch took post,
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd;

Else had I heard the steps, though low

And light they fell, as when earth receives, In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves,

That drop when no winds blow."

VI.

"Then come thou hither, Henry, my page, Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,

When that dark castle, tower, and spire,
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And redden'd all the Nine-stane
Hill,

And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke

Through devouring flame and smothering smoke,

Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. The trustiest thou of all my train, My fleetest courser thou must rein,

And ride to Lyulph's tower, And from the Baron of Triermain

Greet well that sage of power.
He is sprung from Druid sires,
And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.
Gifted like his gifted race,
He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,
Of kingdoms' fall, nd fate of wars,
From mystic dreams and course of stars.
He shall tell if middle earth

To that enchanting shape gave birth,
Or if 'twas but an airy thing,

Onward he rode, the pathway still Winding betwixt the lake and hill; Till, on the fragment of a rock, Struck from its base by lightning shock, He saw the hoary Sage:

The silver moss and lichen twined, With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined,

A cushion fit for age;

And o'er him shook the aspin-tree,
A restless rustling canopy.

Then sprung young Henry from his selle
And greeted Lyulph grave,
And then his master's tale did tell,

And then for counsel crave.
The Man of Years mused long and deep
Of time's lost treasures taking keep,
And then, as rousing from a sleep,
His solemn answer gave.

IX.

"That maid is born of middle earth, And may of man be won, Though there have glided since her birt

Five hundred years and one. But where's the Knight in all the north That dare the adventure follow forth, So perilous to knightly worth, In the valley of St. John?

* Ulswater.

Listen, youth, to what I tell,
And bind it on thy memory well;
Nor muse that I commence the rhyme
Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time.
The mystic tale, by bard and sage,
Is handed down from Merlin's age.

X.

Lyulph's Tale.

“King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle,

When Pentecost was o'er :
He journey'd like errant-knight the while,
And sweetly the summer sun did smile
On mountain, moss, and moor.
Above his solitary track
Rose Glaramara's ridgy back,
Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun
Cast umber'd radiance red and dun,
Though never sunbeam could discern
The surface of that sable tarn,

In whose black mirror you may spy
The stars, while noontide lights the sky.
The gallant King he skirted still
The margin of that mighty hill;
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung,
And torrents, down the gullies flung,
Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on,
Recoiling now from crag and stone,
Now diving deep from human ken,
And raving down its darksome glen.
The Monarch judged this desert wild,
With such romantic ruin piled,
Was theatre by Nature's hand
For feat of high achievement plann'd.

He loved better to rest by wood or river, Than in bower of his bride, Dame Guenever,

For he left that lady so lovely of cheer, To follow adventures of danger and fear; And the frank-hearted Monarch full little did wot,

That she smiled, in his absence, on brave Lancelot.

XII.

"He rode, till over down and dell The shade more broad and deeper fell; And though around the mountain's head Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and red,

Dark at the base, unblest by beam, Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the

stream.

With toil the King his way pursued
By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood,
Till on his course obliquely shone
The narrow valley of SAINT JOHN,
Down sloping to the western sky,
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.
Right glad to feel those beams again,
The King drew up his charger's rein;
With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight,
As dazzled with the level light,
And, from beneath his glove of mail,
Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale,
While 'gainst the sun his armour bright
Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light.