Who scorns the meanest thought to vent,
Save in the phrase of Parliament;
Who, in a tale of cat and mouse,
Calls "order," and "divides the house,"
Who "craves permission to reply,"
Whose "noble friend is in his eye;"
Whose loving tender some have reckon'd
A motion you should gladly second?

V.

What, neither? Can there be a third,
To such resistless swains preferr'd?-
O why, my Lucy, turn aside,

With that quick glance of injured pride?
Forgive me, love, I cannot bear
That alter'd and resentful air.
Were all the wealth of Russel mine,
And all the rank of Howard's line,
All would I give for leave to dry
That dew-drop trembling in thine eye.
Think not I fear such fops can wile
From Lucy more than careless smile;
But yet if wealth and high degree
Give gilded counters currency,
Must I not fear, when rank and birth
Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth?
Nobles there are, whose martial fires
Rival the fame that raised their sires,
And patriots, skill'd through storms of fate
To guide and guard the reeling state.
Such, such there are-If such should come,
Arthur must tremble and be dumb,
Self-exiled seek some distant shore,
And mourn till life and grief are o'er.

VI.

What sight, what signal of alarm,
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm?
Or is it, that the rugged way
Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay?
Oh, no! for on the vale and brake,
Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake,
And this trim sward of velvet green,
Were carpet for the Fairy Queen.
That pressure slight was but to tell,
That Lucy loves her Arthur well,
And fain would banish from his mind
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind.

VII.

But wouldst thou bid the demons fly
Like mist before the dawning sky
There is but one resistless spell—
Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell?
'Twere hard to name, in minstrel phrase,
A landaulet and four blood-bays,
But bards agree this wizard band
Can but be bound in Northern land.

'Tis there-nay, draw not back thy hand!-
'Tis there this slender finger round
Must golden amulet be bound,
Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer,

Can change to rapture lovers' care,
And doubt and jealousy shall die,
And fears give place to ecstasy.

VIII.

Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long Has been thy lover's tale and song. O, why so silent, love, I pray? Have I not spoke the livelong day? And will not Lucy deign to say

One word her friend to bless? I ask but one-a simple sound, Within three little letters bound, O, let the word be YES!

The Bridal of Triermain.

CANTO THIRD.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

LONG loved, long woo'd, and lately won,
My life's best hope, and now mine own!
Doth not this rude and Alpine glen
Recall our favorite haunts agen?
A wild resemblance we can trace,
Though reft of every softer grace,
As the rough warrior's brow may bear
A likeness to a sister fair.

Full well advised our Highland host,
That this wild pass on bot be cross'd,
While round Ben-Cr a's mighty base
Wheel the slow steeds and lingering chaise
The keen old carl, with Scottish pride,
He praised his glen and mountains wide:
An eye he bears for nature's face,
Ay, and for woman's lovely grace.
Even in such mean degree we find
The subtle Scot's observing mind;
For, nor the chariot nor the train
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain,
But when old Allan would expound
Of Beal-na-paish' the Celtic sound,
His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied
His legend to my bonny bride;
While Lucy blush'd beneath his eye,
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly.

1 Beal-na-paish, the Vale of the Bridal

II.

Enough of him.-Now, ere we lose,
Plunged in the vale, the distant views,
Turn thee, my love! look back once more
To the blue lake's retiring shore.
On its smooth breast the shadows seem
Like objects in a morning dream,
What time the slumberer is aware
He sleeps, and all the vision's air:
Even so, on yonder liquid lawn,
In hues of bright reflection drawn,
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie,
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky;
The summer-clouds so plain we note,
That we might count each dappled spot:
We gaze and we admire, yet know
The scene is all delusive show.

Such dreams of bliss' would Arthur draw,
When first his Lucy's form he saw;
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew,
Despairing they could e'er prove true!

Up the fair glen, our destined way: The fairy path that we pursue, Distinguish'd but by greener hue,

Winds round the purple brae,
While Alpine flowers of varied dye
For carpets serve, or tapestry.
See how the little runnels leap,
In threads of silver, down the steep,

To swell the brooklet's moan!

Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves, Fantastic while her crown she weaves, Of rowan, birch, and alder leaves,

So lovely, and so lone.

There's no illusion there; these flowers,
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers,
Are, Lucy, all our own;

And, since thine Arthur call'd thee wife,
Such seems the prospect of his life,
A lovely path, on-winding still,
By gurgling brook and sloping hill.
"Tis true, that mortals cannot tell
What waits them in the distant dell;
But be it hap, or be it harm,
We tread the pathway arm in arm.
IV.

And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why
I could thy bidding twice deny,

1 MS.-"Scenes of bliss."

MS.-"Until yon peevish oath you swore, That you would sue for it no more."

When twice you pray'd I would again
Resume the legendary strain

Of the bold Knight of Triermain?
At length yon peevish vow you

swore,

That you would sue to me no more,
Until the minstrel fit drew near,
And made me prize a listening ear.
But, loveliest, when thou first didst
pray
Continuance of the knightly lay,
Was it not on the happy day

That made thy hand mine own?
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy,
Naught past, or present, or to be,
Could I or think on, hear, or see,
Save, Lucy, thee alone!
A giddy draught my rapture was,
As ever chemist's magic gas.

In

yon

V.

Again the summons I denied
fair capital of Clyde:
My Harp-or let me rather choose
The good old classic form-my Muse.
(For Harp's an over-scutched phrase
Worn out by bards of modern days),
My Muse, then-seldom will she wake,
Save by dim wood and silent lake.
She is the wild and rustic Maid,
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread
Where the soft greensward is inlaid
With varied moss and thyme :
And, lest the simple lily-braid,
That coronets her temples, fade,
She hides her still in greenwood shade,
To meditate her rhyme.

VI.

And now she comes! The murmur

dear

Of the wild brook hath caught her ear,
The glade hath won her eye;
She longs to join with each blithe rill
That dances down the Highland hill,

Her blither melody.3
And now my Lucy's way to cheer.
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear
How closed the tale, my love whilere
Loved for its chivalry.

List how she tells, in notes of flame,
"Child Roland to the dark tower came !"

3 MS. Her wild-wood melody."

4 The MS. has not this couplet.

The Bridal of Triermain.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

BEWCASTLE now must keep the Hold,
Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in stall,
Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold
Must only shoot from battled wall;
And Liddesdale may buckle spur,

And Teviot now may belt the brand, Taras and Ewes keep nightly stir,

And Eskdale foray Cumberland.
Of wasted fields and plunder'd flocks

The Borderers bootless may complain; They lack the sword of brave de Vaux, There comes no aid from Triermain. That lord, on high adventure bound, Hath wander'd forth alone,

And day and night keeps watchful round In the valley of Saint John.

II.

When first began his vigil bold,
The moon twelve summer nights was old,
And shone both fair and full;
High in the vault of cloudless blue,
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw
Her light composed and cool.
Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy breast,

Sir Roland eyed the vale;

Chief where, distinguish'd from the rest,
Those clustering rocks uprear'd their crest,
The dwelling of the fair distress'd,

As told gray Lyulph's tale.
Thus as he lay, the lamp of night
Was quivering on his armor bright,
In beams that rose and fell,
And danced upon his buckler's boss,
That lay beside him on the moss,
As on a crystal well.

III.

Ever he watch'd, and oft he deem'd,

While on the mound the moonlight stream'd,

It alter'd to his eyes;

Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, Fain think, by transmutation strange,

He saw gray turrets rise.

But scarce his heart with hope throb'd high, Before the wild illusions fly,

Which fancy had conceived, Abetted by an anxious eye

That long'd to be deceived. It was a fond deception all,

Such as, in solitary hall,

Beguiles the musing eye,
When, gazing on the sinking fire,
Bulwark, and battlement, and spire,
In the red gulf we spy.

For, seen by moon of middle night,
Or by the blaze of noontide bright,
Or by the dawn of morning light,
Or evening's western flame,
In every tide, at every hour,
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower,
The rocks remain'd the same.

IV.

Oft has he traced the charmed mound,
Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round,
Yet nothing might explore,
Save that the crags so rudely piled,
At distance seen, resemblance wild

To a rough fortress bore.

Yet still his watch the Warrior keeps,
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps,
And drinks but of the well;

Ever by day he walks the hill,
And when the evening gale is chill,

He seeks a rocky cell,

Like hermit poor to bid his bead,
And tell his Ave and his Creed,
Invoking every saint at need,

For aid to burst his spell.

V.

And now the moon her orb has hid,
And dwindled to a silver thread,

Dim seen in middle heaven,
While o'er its curve careering fast,
Before the fury of the blast

The midnight clouds are driven. The brooklet raved, for on the hills The upland showers had swoln the rills, And down the torrents came; Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, And frequent o'er the vale was spread A sheet of lightning flame. De Vaux, within his mountain cave (No human step the storm durst brave), To moody meditation gave

Each faculty of soul,1

Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound,
And the sad winds that whistled round,
Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd,
A broken slumber stole.

'Mongat desert hills, where, leagues around,
Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer):
As starting from his couch of fern,1
Again he heard, in clangor stern,

That deep and solemn swell,Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke, Like some proud minster's pealing clock, Or city's larum-bell.

What thought was Roland's first when fell, In that deep wilderness, the knell

Upon his startled ear?

To slander warrior were I loth,

Yet must I hold my minstrel troth,-
It was a thought of fear.

VII.

But lively was the mingled thrill
That chased that momentary chill,

For Love's keen wish was there,
And eager Hope, and Valor high,
And the proud glow of Chivalry,

That burn'd to do and dare.
Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd,
Long ere the mountain-voice was hush'd,
That answer'd to the knell;

For long and far the unwonted sound,
Eddying in echoes round and round,
Was toss'd from fell to fell;

And Glaramara answer flung,
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung,
And Legbert heights their echoes swung,
As far as Derwent's dell."

VIII.

Forth upon trackless darkness gazed The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed, Till all was hush'd and still, Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar, And the night-blast that wildly bore Its course along the hill.

Then on the northern sky there came A light as of reflected flame,

And over Legbert-head,

As if by magic art controll'd,

A mighty meteor slowly roll'd

Its orb of fiery red;

Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire

MS.

his conch of rock, Again upon his ear it broke." MS. -"mingled sounds were hush'd." "The rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the lady's voice, and laugh'd again; That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar, And the tall steep of Silver-How, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone; Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Sarried the lady's voice,-old Skiddaw blew

Came mounted on that car of fire,
To do his errand dread.
Far on the sloping valley's course,
On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse,
Shingle and Scrae, and Fell and Force,

A dusky light arose:

Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene; Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, Even the gay thicket's summer green, In bloody tincture glows.

IX.

De Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams set,
At eve, upon the coronet

Of that enchanted mound,
And seen but crags at random flung,
That, o'er the brawling torrent hung,
In desolation frown'd.

What sees he by that meteor's lour?-
A banner'd Castle, keep, and tower,

Return the lurid gleam,

With battled walls and buttress fast,
And barbican' and ballium vast,
And airy flanking towers, that cast

Their shadows on the stream.
"Tis no deceit !-distinctly clear
Crenell and parapet appear,
While o'er the pile that meteor drear
Makes momentary pause;
Then forth its solemn path it drew,
And fainter yet and fainter grew
Those gloomy towers upon the view,
As its wild light withdraws.

And sounds were heard, as when a guard
Of some proud castle, holding ward,
Pace forth their nightly round.
The valiant Knight of Triermain
Rung forth his challenge-blast again,

But answer came there none;
And 'mid the mingled wind and rain,
Darkling he sought the vale in vain,'
Until the dawning shone;

And when it dawn'd, that wondrous sight, Distinctly seen by meteor-light,

It all had passed away!

And that enchanted mound once more
A pile of granite fragments bore,
As at the close of day.

XI.

Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart
Scorn'd from his venturous quest to part,
He walks the vale once more;

But only sees, by night or day,
That shatter'd pile of rocks so gray,
Hears but the torrent's roar.

Till when, through hills of azure borne,
The moon renew'd her silver horn,
Just at the time her waning ray
Had faded in the dawning day,

A summer mist arose;
Adown the vale the vapors float,
And cloudy undulations moat
That tufted mound of mystic note,

As round its base they close.

And higher now the fleecy tide
Ascends its stern and shaggy side,
Until the airy billows hide

The rock's majestic isle;
It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn,
By some fantastic fairy drawn
Around enchanted pile.

XII.

The breeze came softly down the brook, And, sighing as it blew,

MS. 2 MS.

"he sought the towers in vain."

But when, through fields of azure borne."
MS." And with their eddying billows moat."
MS.-"Until the mist's gray bosom hide."
• MS." a veil of airy lawn."

"A sharp frost wind, which made itself heard and felt from time to time, removed the clouds of mist which might otherwise have slumbered till morning on the valley; and, though it could not totally disperse the clouds of vapor, yet threw them in confused and changeful inasses, now hovering round the heads of the mountains, now filling, as with a dense and voluminous stream of smoke, the various deep gullies where masses of the composite rock, or brescia, tumbling in fragments from the cliffs, have rushed to the valley, leaving each behind its course a rent and torn ravine, resembling a deserted water-course. The moon, which was now high, and twinkled with all the vivacity of a frosty atmosphere, silvered

The veil of silver mist it shook, And to De Vaux's eager look

Renew'd that wondrous view. For, though the loitering vapor braved The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved Its mantle's dewy fold;

And still, when shook that filmy screen, Were towers and bastions dimly seen, And Gothic battlements between

Their gloomy length unroll'd' Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye Once more the fleeting vision die!

-The gallant knight 'gan speed
As prompt and light as, when the hound
Is opening, and the horn is wound,
Careers the hunter's steed.
Down the steep dell his course amain

Hath rivall'd archer's shaft;
But ere the mound he could attain,
The rocks their shapeless form regain,
And, mocking loud his labor vain,

The mountain spirits laugh'd.
Far up the echoing dell was borne
Their wild unearthly shout of scorn.

XIII.

Wroth wax'd the Warrior.-" Am I then
Fooled by the enemies of men,

Like a poor hind, whose homeward way
Is haunted by malicious fay?

Is Triermain become your taunt,

De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, avaunt!"

A weighty curtal-axe he bare;

The baleful blade so bright and square,
And the tough shaft of heben wood,
Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued.
Backward his stately form he drew,
And at the rocks the weapon threw,
Just where one crag's projected crest
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest.
Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock
Rent a huge fragment of the rock.
If by mere strength, 'twere hard to tell,

the windings of the river, and the peaks and precipices which the mist left visible, while her beams seemed, as it were, ab sorbed by the fleecy whiteness of the mist, where it lay thick and condensed, and gave to the more light and vapory specks, which were elsewhere visible, a sort of filmy transparency re sembling the lightest veil of silver gauze."- Waverley No vels-Rob Roy—vol. viii. p. 267.

"The praise of truth, precision, and distinctness, is not very frequently combined with that of extensive magnificence and splendid complication of imagery; yet, how masterly, and often sublime, is the panoramic display, in all these works, of vast and diversified scenery, and of crowded and tumultuous action," &c.—Adolphus, p. 163.

"The scenery of the valley, seen by the light of the sum mer and autumnal moon, is described with an aërial touch to which we cannot do justice."-Quarterly Review.

& MS.-"Is wilder'd."