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 uprear,

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 favorite 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,

1 MS.-"Haughty eye."

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 color 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,2
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.

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,

"with wings as swift

As meditation or the thoughts of love."—Hamlet.

"

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!

My sword

VI.

-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 honor true,

That boasts a pulse so warm as mine?1
They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare-

Match'd with thine eyes, I thought it faded; They praised the pearls that bound thy hairI only saw the locks they braided; They talk'd of wealthy dower and land, And titles of high birth the token

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 unwise,
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 boasts 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 favoring smile from fair BuCCLEUCH!
By one poor streamlet sounds its tone,
And heard by one dear maid alone.
VIII.

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-starred 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 Bridal of Triermain.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

1 MS.-"That boasts so warm a heart as mine." MS." And Lucy's gems before her eyes." The Mocking Bird.

4 MS.-" Perchance, because it sung their praise." 5 See Appendix, Note A.

"The Introduction, though by no means destitute of beaut'es, is decidedly inferior to the Poem: its plan, or conception, s neither very ingenious nor very striking. The best passages are those in which the author adheres most strictly to his original in those which are composed without having his eyes fixed on his model, there is a sort of affectation and straining at humor, that will probably excite some feeling of disappointment, either because the effort is not altogether successful, or because it does not perfectly harmonize with the tone and coloring of the whole piece.

"The Bridal' self is purely a tale of chivalry; a tale of 'Britain's isle, and Arthur's days, when midnight fairies daunced the maze.' The author never gives us a glance of ordinary life, or of ordinary personages. From the splendid Court of Arthur, we are conveyed to the halls of enchantment, and, of course, are introduced to a system of manaers perfectly decided and appropriate, but altogether remote

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

from those of this vulgar world."-Quarterly Review, July 1813.

"The poem now before us consists properly of two distinct subjects, interwoven together something in the manner of the Last Minstrel and his Lay, in the first and most enchanting of Walter Scott's romances. The first is the history (real or imaginary, we presume not to guess which) of the author's pas sion, courtship, and marriage, with a young lady, his superior in rank and circumstances, to whom he relates at intervals the story which may be considered as the principal design of the work, to which it gives its title. This is a mode of introducing romantic and fabulous narratives which we very much approve, though there may be reason to fear that too frequent repetition may wear out its effect. It attaches a degree of dramatic interest to the work, and at the same time softens the absurdity of a Gothic legend, by throwing it to a greater distance from the relation and auditor, by representing it, not as a train of facts which actually took place, but as a mere fable, either adopted by the credulity of former times, or invented for the purposes of amusement, and the exercise of the imagination."-Critical Review, 1813.

7 See Appendix, Note B.

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 Plantagenet-
Such must her form be, her mood, and her
strain,

That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

II.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath lain 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
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.

III.

It was the dawn of an autumn day;
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray,
That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head,
And faintly gleam'd each painted pane
Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that Baron bold awoke.
Starting he woke, and loudly did call,
Rousing his menials in bower and hall,

While hastily he spoke.

IV.

"Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touch'd his harp with that dying fall,

So sweet, so soft, so faint,

It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call
To an expiring saint?

1 Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes from Cumberland into Westmoreland. It takes its name from a cairn, or pile

And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where [brow,

Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, And her graceful step and her angel air, And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair, That pass'd from my bower e'en now ?"

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy,

Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sat since midnight close,

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, and fate of wars,

of stones, erected, it is said, to the memory of Dunmail, the last King of Cumberland

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,
Such as fantastic slumbers bring,

Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes,

Or fading tints of western skies.'
For, by the Blessed Rood I swear,
If that fair form breathe vital air,
No other maiden by my side

Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!"""

VII.

The faithful Page he mounts his steed,
And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead,
Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,
And Eden barr'd his course in vain.

He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round,'
For feats of chivalry renown'd,

Left Mayburgh's mound' and stones of power,

By Druids raised in magic hour,

And traced the Eamont's winding way,
Till Ulfo's lake beneath him lay.

VIII.

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 aspen-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 birth

Five hundred years and one.
But where's the Knight in all the north,
That dare the adventure follow forth,

1 Just like Aurora, when she ties

A rainbow round the morning skies."-MOORE. "This powerful Baron required in the fair one whom he should bonor with his hand an assemblage of qualities, that appears to us rather unreasonable even in those high days, profuse as they are known to have been of perfections now nattamable. His resolution, however, was not more inflexime than that of any mere modern youth; for he decrees that

So perilous to knightly worth,
In the valley of St. John?
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.