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
Shall shrink beneath the burthen dear
Of form so slender, light and fine.-
So, now, the danger dared at last,
Look back and smile at perils past!

III.

uprear,

And now we reach the favourite glade, Paled in by copse-wood, 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 hue 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,

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 diamond's 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 token-

I 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 Columbian 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 favouring smile from fair BUCCLEUCH!
By one poor streamlet sounds its tone,
And heard by one dear maid alone.

VIII.
But, if thou bidst, 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 cho
What other song can claim her poet's voice!

The Mocking Bird.

CANTO I.

I.

WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain,

That may match with the Baron of Triermain ?(2)
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 sun-beam 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
la the veins of the noblest Plantagenet-
Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain,
That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Brettville; he
Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy,-

« Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sate 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 Duumailraise. (3)
Gifted like his gifted race,
He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,
Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,
From mystic dreams and course of stars.

He shall tell if middle earth

To that enchanting shape gave birth,

Or if it was 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,

ye

all

If that fair form breathe vital air,

And hearken, my merrymen! What time or where
Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow,
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?»>—

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, (4)
For feats of chivalry renown'd,

Left Myburgh's mound and stones of power, (5) 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, of man be won,

And may 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,
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 gulphs the sun
Cast umber'd radiance red and dun,
Though never sun-beam could discern
The surface of that sable tarn, (6)
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;
Rocks 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.
XI.

O rather he chose, that monarch bold,
On vent'rous quest to ride,

In plate and mail, by wood and wold,
Than, with ermine trapp'd and cloth of gold,
In princely bower to hide;

The bursting crash of a foeman's spear,
As it shiver'd against his mail,
Was merrier music to his ear

Than courtier's whisper'd tale;
And the clash of Caliburn more dear,
When on the hostile casque it rung,
Than all the lays

To their monarch's praise
That the harpers of Reged sung.

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 wet,
That she smiled, in his absence, on brave Lanceist

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 sun-beams 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.
XIII.

Paled in by many a lofty hill,
The narrow dale lay smooth and still,
And, down its verdant bosom led,
A winding brooklet found its bed.
But, midmost of the vale, a mound
Arose, with airy turrets crown'd,
Buttress and rampire's circling bound,

And mighty keep and tower;
Seem'd some primeval giant's hand
The castle's massive walls had plann'd,
A pond'rous bulwark to withstand
Ambitious Nimrod's power,
Above the moated entrance slung,
The balanced draw-bridge trembling hung,
As jealous of a foe;

Wicket of oak, as iron hard,

With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd,
And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard
The gloomy pass below.

Beneath the castle's gloomy pride,
In ample round did Arthur ride

Three times; nor living thing he spied,
Nor heard a living sound,

Save that, awakening from her dream,
The owlet now began to scream,
In concert with the rushing stream,
That wash'd the battled mound.

He lighted from his goodly steed,

And he left him to graze on bank and mead;
And slowly he climb'd the narrow way,
That reach'd the entrance grim and gray,
And he stood the outward arch below,
And his bugle horn prepared to blow,
In summons blithe and bold,
Deeming to rouse from iron sleep
The guardian of this dismal keep,
Which well he guess'd the hold
Of wizard stern, or goblin grim,
Or pagan of gigantic limb,

The tyrant of the wold.

An hundred voices welcome gave,

And welcome o'er and o'er!
An hundred lovely hands assail
The bucklers of the monarch's mail,
And busy labour'd to unhasp
Rivet of steel and iron clasp.
One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair,
And one flung odours on his hair;

His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down,
One wreath'd them with a myrtle crown.

A bride, upon her wedding-day,

Was tended ne'er by troop so gay.

XVII.

Loud laugh'd they all,-the king, in vain,
With questions task'd the giddy train :
Let him entreat, or crave, or call,

'T was one reply,-loud laugh'd they all.
Then o'er him mimic chains they fling,
Framed of the fairest flowers of spring.
While some their gentle force unite,
Oaward to drag the wondering knight,
Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows,
Dealt with the lily or the rose.
Behind him were in triumph borne
The warlike arms he late had worn,
Four of the train combined to rear
The terrors of Tintagel's spear; (7)
Two, laughing at their lack of strength,
Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length; (8)
One, while she aped a martial stride,
Placed on her brows the helmet's pride,
Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise,
To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes.
With revel shout and triumph song,
Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng.

XVIII.

Through many a gallery and hall
They led, I ween, their royal thrall;
At length, beneath a fair arcade
Their march and song at once they staid.
The eldest maiden of the band

(The lovely maid was scarce eighteen)
Raised, with imposing air, her hand,
And reverend silence did command,
On entrance of their queen;
And they were mute.—But as a glance
They steal on Arthur's countenance,
Bewilder'd with surprise,

Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak,
In archly dimpled chin and cheek,
And laughter-lighted eyes.

XIX.

The attributes of those high days
Now only live in minstrel lays,
For Nature, now exhausted, still
Was then profuse of good and ill.
Strength was gigantic, valour high,
And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky,
And beauty had such matchless beam,
As lights not now a lover's dream.
Yet, e'en in that romantic age,

Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen

Or wherefore trace, from what slight cause Its source one tyrant passion draws,

Till, mastering all within,

Where lives the man that has not tried,
How mirth can into folly glide,
And folly into sin?

date the monarch by, Na de turn abash'd and shy, wia indifference seem'd to hear ys he whisper'd in her ear. Yering modest was and fair, ycoons of constraint were there, the show'd an over-cautious care Some inward thought to hide; and she pause in full reply, And oft cast down her large dark eye, O check'd the soft voluptuous sigh, That heaved her bosom's pride. Sht symptoms these; but shepherds know How hot the mid-day sun shall glow,

From the mist of morning sky; And so the wily monarch guess'd, That this assumed restraint express'd More ardent passions in the breast, Than ventured to the eye. Closer he press'd, while beakers rang, While maidens laugh'd and minstrels sang, Still closer to her ear

But why pursue the common tale?

Or wherefore show how knights prevail
When ladies dare to hear?

CANTO II.

I.

LYULPH'S TALE CONTINUED.

ANOTHER day, another day,
And yet another, glides away!
The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane,
Maraud on Britain's shores again.
Arthur, of Christendom the flower,
Lies loitering in a lady's bower;
The horn, that foemen wont to fear,
Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer,
And Caliburn, the British pride,
Hangs useless by a lover's side.

II.

Another day, another day,
And yet another, glides away.
Heroic plans in pleasure drown'd,
He thinks not of the Table Round;
In lawless love dissolved his life,
He thinks not of his beauteous wife;
Better he loves to snatch a flower
From bosom of his paramour,
Than from a Saxon knight to wrest
The honours of his heathen crest;
Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown,
The heron's plume her hawk struck down,
Than o'er the altar give to flow

The banners of a Paynim foe.

Thus, week by week, and day by day,
His life inglorious glides away;

But she, that soothes his dream, with fear
Beholds his hour of waking near.

III.

Much force have mortal charms to stay
Our pace in Virtue's toilsome way;
But Guendolen's might far outshine
Each maid of merely mortal line.
Her mother was of human birth,
Her sire a genie of the earth,
In days of old deem'd to preside
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride,
By youths and virgins worshipp'd long,
With festive dance and choral song,
Till, when the cross to Britain came,
On heathen altars died the flame.
Now, deep in Wastdale's solitude,
The downfall of his rights he rued,
And, born of his resentment heir,
He train'd to guile that lady fair,
To sink in slothful sin and shame
The champions of the christian name.
Well-skill'd to keep vain thoughts alive,
And all to promise, nought to give,