r Up! up! each knight of gallant crest!
Take buckler, spear, and brand!
He that to-day shall bear him best,

Shall win my Gyneth's hand.
And Arthur's daughter, when a bride,
Shall bring a noble dower;

Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide,
And Carlisle town and tower.»>-
Then might you hear each valiant knight,
To page and squire that cried,

<< Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight!
'T is not each day that a warrior's might
May win a royal bride.»>—
Then cloaks and caps of maintenance
In haste aside they fling;

The helmets glance, and gleams the lance
And the steel-weaved hauberks ring.

Small care had they of their peaceful array,
They might gather it that wolde;
For brake and bramble glitter'd gay,
With pearls and cloth of gold.

XVII.

Within trumpet-sound of the Table Round
Were fifty champions free,

And they all arise to fight that prize,-
They all arise, but three.

Nor love's fond troth, nor wedlock's oath,
One gallant could withhold,

For priests will allow of a broken vow,
For penance or for gold.

But sigh and glance from ladies bright
Among the troop were thrown,

To plead their right, and true-love plight,
And plain of honour flown.

The knights they busied them so fast,
With buckling spur and belt,
That sigh and look by ladies cast,
Were neither seen nor felt.

From pleading or upbraiding glance

Each gallant turns aside,

And only thought, « If speeds my lance,

There were two who loved their neighbours' wives,
And one who loved his own. (6)

The first was Lancelot de Lac,
The second Tristrem bold,

The third was valiant Carodac,
Who won the cup of gold, (7)
What time, of all King Arthur's crew
(Thereof came jeer and laugh),
He as the mate of lady true,

Alone the cup could quaff.
Though envy's tongue would fain surmise,
That, but for very shame,

Sir Carodac, to fight that prize,

Had given both cup and dame.

Yet, since but one of that fair court
Was true to wedlock's shrine,
Brand him who will with base report,―
He shall be free from mine.

XIX.

Now caracol'd the steeds in air,

Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair,
As all around the lists so wide
In panoply the champions ride.
King Arthur saw, with startled eye,
The flower of chivalry march by,
The bulwark of the Christian creed,
The kingdom's shield in hour of need.
Too late he thought him of the woe
Might from their civil conflict flow:
For well he knew they would not part
Till cold was many a gallant heart.
His hasty vow he 'gan to rue,
And Gyneth then apart he drew;
To her his leading-staff resign'd,
But added caution grave and kind.

XX.

<< Thou seest, my child, as promise-bound,

I bid the trump for tourney sound,
Take thou my warder, as the queen
And umpire of the martial scene;
But mark thou this :-as Beauty bright

Is polar star to valiant knight,

As at her word his sword he draws,
His fairest guerdon her applause,
So gentle maid should never ask

Of knighthood vain and dangerous task;
And Beauty's eyes should ever be

Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, And Beauty's breath should whisper peace,

And bid the storm of battle cease.

I tell thee this, lest all too far

These knights urge tourney into war.

Blithe at the trumpet let them go,
And fairly counter blow for blow ;-
No striplings these, who succour need
For a razed helm or falling steed.

But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm,
And threatens death or deadly harm,
Thy sire entreats, thy king commands,
Thou drop the warder from thy hands.
Trust thou thy father with thy fate,
Doubt not be chuse thee fitting mate;
Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride
A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.»-

<< Reserve thy boon, my liege,» she said, << Thus chaffer'd down and limited, Debased and narrow'd, for a maid

Of less degree than I.

No petty chief, but holds his heir
At a more honour'd price and rare
Than Britain's king holds me!
Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower,
Has but her father's rugged tower,

His barren hill and lea.

King Arthur swore, by crown and sword,
'As belted knight, and Britain's lord,
"That a whole summer's day should strive
'His knights, the bravest knights alive!'
Recal thine oath! and to her glen
Poor Gyneth can return agen;
Not on thy daughter will the stain,
That soils thy sword and crown, remain.
But think not she will e'er be bride
Save to the bravest, proved and tried ;
Pendragon's daughter will not fear
For clashing sword or splinter'd spear,

Nor shrink though blood should flow;
And all too well sad Guendolen
Hath taught the faithlessness of men,
That child of hers should pity when
Their meed they undergo.>>

XXII.

He frown'd and sigh'd, the monarch bold :

<< I give—what I may not withhold;
For, not for danger, dread, or death,
Must British Arthur break his faith.
Too late I mark, thy mother's art
Hath taught thee this relentless part.
I blame her not, for she had wrong,
But not to these my faults belong.
Use, then, the warder as thou wilt;
But trust me that, if life be spilt,
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace,
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.»>
With that he turn'd his head aside,
Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride,
As, with the truncheon raised, she sate
The arbitress of mortal fate;

Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed,
How the bold champions stood opposed;
For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell
Upon his ear like passing-bell!
Then first from sight of martial fray
Did Britain's hero turn away.

XXIII.

But Gyneth heard the clangour high,
As hears the hawk the partridge-cry.
Oh! blame her not! the blood was hers,
That at the trumpet's summons stirs !—
And e'en the gentlest female eye
Might the brave strife of chivalry
Awhile untroubled view;

So well accomplish'd was each knight,

To strike and to defend in fight,
Their meeting was a goodly sight,

While plate and mail held true.
The lists with painted plumes were strown,
Upon the wind at random thrown,

But helm and breast-plate bloodless shone;
It seem'd their feather'd crests alone
Should this encounter rue.

And ever, as the combat grows,
The trumpet's cheery voice arose,
Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows,
Heard while the gale of April blows
The merry green-wood through.

XXIV.

But soon to earnest grew their game,
The

spears drew blood, the swords struck flame, And, horse and man, to ground there came Knights who shall rise no more!

Gone was the pride the war that graced,
Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced,
And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced,
And pennons stream'd with gore.
Gone, too, were fence and fair
array,
And desperate strength made deadly way
At random through the bloody fray,
And blows were dealt with headlong sway,
Unheeding where they fell;

And now the trumpet's clamours seem
Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream,
Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream,
The sinking seaman's knell!

XXV.

Seem'd in this dismal hour, that Fate
Would Camlan's ruin antedate,

And spare dark Mordred's crime;
Already gasping on the ground
Lie twenty of the Table Round,
Of chivalry the prime.
Arthur, in anguish, tore away
From head and beard his tresses gray,
And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay,

And quaked with ruth and fear;
But still she deem'd her mother's shade
Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade
The sign that had the slaughter staid,

And chid the rising tear.
Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell,
Helias the White, and Lionel,

And many a champion more;
Rochemont and Dinadam are down,
And Ferrand of the Forest Brown

Lies gasping in his gore. Vanoc, by mighty Moralt press'd Even to the confines of the list, Young Vanoc of the beardless face (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race), O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, His heart's blood dyed her sandals red. But then the sky was overcast, Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, And, rent by sudden throes, Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, And from the gulf,-tremendous birth! The form of Merlin rose.

XXVI.

Sternly the wizard prophet eyed
The dreary lists with slaughter dyed,

And sternly raised his hand:

<< Madmen,» he said, « your strife forbear! And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear

The doom thy fates demand!
Long shall close in stony sleep

Eyes for ruth that would not weep;
Iron lethargy shall seal

Heart that pity scorn'd to feel.
Yet, because thy mother's art
Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart,
And for love of Arthur's race,
Punishment is blent with grace,
Thou shalt bear thy penance lone,
In the Valley of St John,

And this weird shall overtake thee;-
Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee,
For feats of arms as far renown'd
As warrior of the Table Round.
Long endurance of thy slumber
Well may teach the world to number
All their woes from Gyneth's pride,
When the Red Cross champions died.»>-

XXVII.

As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye
Slumber's load begins to lie;
Fear and anger vainly strive
Still to keep its light alive.
Twice, with effort and with pause,
O'er her brow her hand she draws;
Twice her strength in vain she tries,
From the fatal chair to rise;
Merlin's magic doom is spoken,
Vanoc's death must now be wroken.
Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall,
Curtaining each azure ball,
Slowly as on summer eves
Violets fold their dusky leaves.
The weighty baton of command
Now bears down her sinking hand,
On her shoulder droops her head;
Net of pearl and golden thread,
Bursting, gave her locks to flow
O'er her arm and breast of snow.
And so lovely seem'd she there,
Spell-bound in her ivory chair,
That her angry sire, repenting,
Craved stern Merlin for relenting,
And the champions for her sake,
Would again the contest wake;
Till, in necromantic night,
Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.

XXVIII.

Still she bears her weird alone,
In the Valley of Saint John;
And her semblance oft will seem
Mingling in a champion's dream,
Of her weary lot to plain,

And crave his aid to burst her chain.

1 Doom.

While her wondrous tale was new,
Warriors to her rescue drew,

East and west, and south and north,
From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth.
Most have sought in vain the glen,
Tower nor castle could they ken;
Not at every time or tide,
Nor by every eye,
descried.
Fast and vigil must be borne,
Many a night in watching worn,
Ere an eye of mortal powers
Can discern those magic towers.
Of the persevering few,

Some from hopeless task withdrew,
When they read the dismal threat
Graved upon the gloomy gate.
Few have braved the yawning door,
And those few return'd no more.

In the lapse of time forgot,
Well nigh lost is Gyneth's lot;
Sound her sleep as in the tomb,
Till waken'd by the trump of doom.

END OF LYULPH'S TALE.

I.

Here pause, my tale; for all too soon,
My Lucy, comes the hour of noon.
Already from thy lofty dome
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam,
And, each, to kill the goodly day
That God has granted them, his way
Of lazy sauntering has sought;

Lordlings and witlings not a few,
Incapable of doing aught,

Yet ill at ease with nought to do. Here is no longer place for me; For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see Some phantom, fashionably thin, With limb of lath and kerchief'd chin, And lounging gape, or sneering grin, Steal sudden on our privacy. And how should I, so humbly born, Endure the graceful spectre's scorn! Faith! ill I fear, while conjuring wand Of English oak is hard at hand.

II.

Or grant the hour be all too soon
For Hessian boot and pantaloon,
And grant the lounger seldom strays
Beyond the smooth and gravell'd maze,
Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train
Holds hearts of more adventurous strain.
Artists are hers, who scorn to trace
Their rules from Nature's boundless grace,
But their right paramount assert
To limit her by pedant art,
Damning whate'er of vast and fair
Exceeds a canvas three feet square.
This thicket, for their gumption fit,
May furnish such a happy bit.
Bards, too, are hers, wont to recite
Their own sweet lays by waxen light,

Half in the salver's tinkle drown'd,
While the chasse-café glides around!
And such may hither secret stray,
To labour an extempore:

Or sportsman, with his boisterous hollo,
May here his wiser spaniel follow,
Or stage-struck Juliet may presume
To chuse this bower for tiring-room;
And we alike must shun regard,
From painter, player, sportsman, bard.
Insects that skim in Fashion's sky,
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly,
Lucy, have all alarms for us,

For all can hum and all can buzz.

III.

But oh, my Lucy, say how long

We still must dread this trifling throng,
And stoop to hide, with coward art,
The genuine feelings of the heart!
No parents thine, whose just command
Should rule their child's obedient hand;
Thy guardians, with contending voice,
Press each his individual choice.
And which is Lucy's!-Can it be
That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pie,
Who loves in the saloon to show
The arms that never knew a foe;
Whose sabre trails along the ground,
Whose legs in shapeless boots are drown'd?
A new Achilles, sure,-the steel
Fled from his breast to fence his heel!
One, for the simple manly grace
That wont to deck our martial race,
Who comes in foreign trashery
Of tinkling chain and spur,
A walking haberdashery

Of feathers, lace, and fur:
In Rowley's antiquated phrase
Horse-milliner1 of modern days.

IV.

Or is it he, the wordy youth,

So early train'd for statesman's part, Who talks of honour, faith and truth,

As themes that he has got by heart; Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach, Whose logic is from Single-speech; 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,

The trammels of the palfraye pleased his sight,
And the horse-millanere his head with roses dight.
ROWLEY'S Ballads of Charitie.

With that quick glance of injured pride?
Forgive me, love, I cannot bear
That alter'd and resentful air.
Were all the wealth of Russell 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;
if wealth and high degree

But
yet
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?
'T were 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 lover's care,
And doubt and jealousy shall die,
And fears give place to ecstacy.

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!

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO III

I.

may

bear

LONG loved, long woo'd, and lately won, My life's best hope, and now mine own! Doth not this rude and Alpine glen Recal our favourite haunts agen? A wild resemblance we can trace, Though reft of every softer grace, As the rough warrior's brow A likeness to a sister fair. Full well advised our Highland host, That this wild pass on foot be cross'd, While round Ben Cruach's mighty base Wheel the slow steeds and lingering chaise. The keen old carle, with Scottish pride, He praised his glen and mountains wide; An eye he bears for nature's faceAy, and for woman's lovely grace. Even in such mean degree we find The subtle Scot's observing mind; For, not 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.

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!

III.

But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view

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 carpet serve or tapestry.

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

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 path-way arm in arm.

IV.

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

V.

Again the summons I denied
In yon fair capital of Clyde;
My harp-or let me rather chuse
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 green-sward is inlaid
With varied moss and thyme;
And, lest the simple lily braid,
That coronets her temples, fade,
She hides her still in green-wood shade,
To meditate her rhyme.

VI.

And now she comes! The murmur dear
Of the wild brook bath 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.

50