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Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim ?
Titania's foot without a slip,
From stone to stone might safely trip,
That this same stalwart arm of mine, Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear, 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!
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.
Nor leave me on this mossy bank,
To meet a rival on a throne:
But when a soldier names my name,
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 tokenI thought of Lucy's heart and hand,
Nor knew the sense of what was spoken.
I might have learn'd their choice unwise,
That borrows accents not its own, , Like warbler of Columbian sky,
That sings but in a mimic tone.'
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 ? 0! 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 turo'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.
Too oft my anxious eye has spied
The load-star of each heart and eye,
With such a blush and such a sigh! Thou wouldst not yield, for wealth or rauk,
The heart thy worth and beauty won,
+ The Mocking Bird.
FBERE is the maiden of mortal strain, lat may match with the Barcn of Triermain (2) he must be lovely and constant and kind, loly and pure and humble of mind, fiche of cheer and gentle of mood, ourteous and generous and noble of bloodovely as the sun's first ray, When it breaks the clouds of an April day; konstant and true as the widow'd dove, lied as a minstrel that sings of love ; ure as the fountain in rocky cave, There never sun-beam kiss'd the wave; lumble as maiden that loves in vain, loly as hermit's vesper strain; leotle as breeze that but whispers and dies, et blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; ourteous as monarch the morn he is crown'd, enerous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; lable her blood as the currents that met
the veins of the noblest Plantagenetweh must her form be, ber mood, and her strain, hat shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.
Answer'd him Richard de Brettville; he
Have sate since midnight close,
And hush'd you to repose. Had a harp-pote sounded here, It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh,
Else had I heard the steps, though low
That drop when no winds blow.»—
All in the castle must hold them still,
Like the dew on a summer-hill.
And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, .
Made the warrior's heart-blood chill!
And ride to Lyulph's tower,
Greet well that sage of power.
So sweet, so soft, so faint,
To an expiring saint?
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 c'en now?»
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 barrd 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)
Was theatre by Nature's hand
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 greeted Lyulph grave,
And then for counsel crave.
His solemn answer gave.
« 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.
In the valley of St John ?
O rather he chose, that monarch bold,
On vent'rous quest to ride,
In princely bower to bide;
As it shiver'd against his mail,
Than courtier's whisper'd tale;
Than all the lays
To their monarch's praise
And mighty keep and tower;
Ambitious Nimrod's power.
As jealous of a foe;
The gloomy pass below.
When Pentecost was o'er :
On mountain, moss, and moor.
But the gray walls no banners crown'd,
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 c!asp. One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair, And one flung odours on his hair; His short curld 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.
Nor heard a living sound,
That wash'd the battled mound.
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 sizard stern, or goblin grim, Or pagan of gigantic limb,
The tyrant of the wold.
XVII. Loud laugh'd they all,—the king, in vain, With questions lask'd the giddy train : Let bim 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, Onward to drag the wendering knight, Some, bolder, urce his pace with blows, Dealt with the lily or the rose. Behind him were in triumph borne The warlike arms he late had worn, Tour of the train combined to rear The terrors of Tintagel's spear; (7) Two, laughing at their lack of strength, Draggd 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.
And twice his band withdrew.
He had charged them through and through;
Ere yet his horn be blew.
XVJI. Through many a gallery and hall They led, I ween, their royal thrall; At length, beneath a fair arcade Their marchi 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;
Bewilderd with surprise,
And laughter-lighted eyes.
That lour'd along the walls,
The inmates of the lialls.
Nor heathen knight was there;
A band of damsels fair.
That dances to the shore ;
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, c'en in that romantic age, Ne'er were such charms by mortal scen
Or wherefore trace, from what slight cause
Till, mastering all within,
And folly into sin?
As Arthur's dazzled cyes en cage,
Advanced the castle's queen!
That flash'd expression strong;
The gaze that lasted long.
Had whisper'd, « Prince, beware;
But shun that lovely snare!»
1. LYULPH'S TALE CONTINUED. ANOTHER day, another day, And yet another, glides away! The Saxon stero, the pagan Dane, Maraud on Britain's shores again. Arthur, of Christendom the flower, Lies loitering in a lady's bower; The born, that foemen wont to fear, Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer, And Caliburn, the British pride, Hangs uscless by a lover's side.
XX. At once, that inward strife suppressid, The dame approach'd her warlike guest, With greeting in that fair degrec Where female pride and courtesy Are blended with such passing art As awes at once and charms the heart. A courtly welcome first she gave, Then of his goodness 'gan to crave
Construction fair and true Of her light maidens' idle mirth, Who drew from lonely glens their birth, Nor knew to pay to stranget worth
And dignity their due; And then slie pray'd that he would rest That night her castle's honour'd guest. The monarch meetly thanks express d ; The banquet rose at her behest; With lay and tale, and laugh and jest,
Apace the evening flew.
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 bis 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 browo, 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.
Some inward thought to hide;
That heaved her bosom's pride.
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.
Still closer to her ear-
When ladies dare to hear?
U . 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 lioe. Her mother was of human birth, Her sire a genie of the earth, In days of oid 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 fame. Now, deep in Wastdaie's solitade, The downfall of his rights he rued, And, born of his resentment heir, He traja'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,