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THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

I.

INTRODUCTION.

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.— -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

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V.

Too oft my anxious eye has spied
That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide,
The passing pang of humbled pride;
Too oft, when through the splendid
hall,

The load-star of each heart and eye,
My fair one leads the glittering ball,
Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall,
With such a blush and such a sigh!
Thou wouldst not yield, for wealth or
rank,

The heart thy worth and beauty won,
Nor leave me on this mossy bank,

To meet a rival on a throne :
Why, then, should vain repinings rise,
That to thy lover fate denies
A nobler name, a wide domain,
A Baron's birth, a menial train,
Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part,
A lyre, a falchion, and a heart?

VI.

My sword-its master must be dumb;

But, when a soldier names my name,
Approach, my Lucy! fearless come,
Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame.
My heart-'mid all yon courtly crew,
Of lordly rank and lofty line,
Is there to love and honour true,

That boasts a pulse so warm as
mine?

They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare—
Match'd with thine eyes, I thought it
faded;

They praised the pearls that bound thy hair

I only saw the locks they braided;

They talk'd of wealthy dower and land,

And titles of high birth the tokenI thought of Lucy's heart and hand, Nor knew the sense of what was

spoken.

And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll,
I might have learn'd their choice un
wise,

Who rate the dower above the soul,
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes.

VII.

My lyre-it is an idle toy,

That borrows accents not its own,
Like warbler of Colombian sky,

That sings but in a mimic tone.*
Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well,
Nor boast it aught of Border spell;
Its strings no feudal slogan pour,
Its heroes draw no broad claymore;
No shouting clans applauses raise,
Because it sung their fathers' praise;
On Scottish moor, or English down,
It ne'er was graced with fair renown;
Nor won,-best meed to minstrel true,
One favouring smile from fair Buc

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But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell
Of errant knight, and damozelle;
Of the dread knot a Wizard tied,
In punishment of maiden's pride,
In notes of marvel and of fear,
That best may charm romantic ear.

For Lucy loves,-like COLLINS, ill-starr'd name!
Whose lay's requital was that tardy fame,
Who bound no laurel round his living head,
Should hang it o'er his monument when dead,-
For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand,
And thread, like him, the maze of Fairy land;
Of golden battlements to view the gleam,
And slumber soft by some Elysian stream;

Such lays she loves,-and, such my Lucy's choice,
What other song can claim her Poet's voice?

*The Mocking Bird.

THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

WHERE is the Maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Triermain?

She must be lovely, and constant, and kind,

Holy and pure, and humble of mind,
Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood,
Courteous, and generous, and noble of
blood-

Lovely as the sun's first ray,
When it breaks the clouds of an April day;
Constant and true as the widow'd dove,
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,
Where never sunbeam kiss'd the wave;
Humble as maiden that loves in vain,
Holy as hermit's vesper strain;
Gentle as breeze that but whispers and
dies,

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

Courteous as monarch the morn he is crown'd,

Generous as spring-dews that bless the

glad ground;

Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest PlantagenetSuch must her form be, her mood, and her strain,

That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

II.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,

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

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

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"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,

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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, f
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.

TOC

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

Tyulph'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.

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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.

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