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

Our 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,
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

bard.

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 foc;
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-milliner 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,

With that quick glance of injured pride?

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

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;
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!
'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!-
"T is 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.

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 may bear
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 face,
Ay, 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 ecstasy,
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.

In

V.

Again the summons I denied
fair capital of Clyde;
yon
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 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.

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, And may of man be won,

Though there have glided since her birth,
Five hundred
and one.
years
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 incumbent hung,

Rocks upon
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 w
That she smiled, in his absence, on brave Lancel
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 bean,
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 bung.
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.

But the gray walls no banners crown'd,
Upen the watch-tower's airy round
No warder stood his horn to sound,
No guard beside the bridge was found,
And, where the Gothic gateway frown'd,
Glanced neither bill nor bow.

XIV.

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,

XV.

The ivory bugle's golden tip

Twice touch'd the monarch's manly lip,
And twice his hand withdrew.

-Think not but Arthur's heart was good!
His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood,
Had a pagan host before him stood,

He had charged them through and through; Yet the silence of that ancient place

Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space
Ere yet his horn he blew.

But, instant as its larum rung,

The castle-gate was open flung,
Portcullis rose with crashing groan,
Full harshly up its groove of stone ;
The balance-beams obey'd the blast,
And down the trembling draw-bridge cast;
The vaulted arch before him lay,
With nought to bar the gloomy way,
And onward Arthur paced, with hand
On Caliburn's resistless brand.

XVI.

A hundred torches flashing bright
Dispell'd at once the gloomy night
That lour'd along the walls,

And show'd the king's astonish'd sight
The inmates of the halls.

Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim,
Nor giant huge of form and limb,

Nor heathen knight was there;

But the cressets, which odours flung aloft,
Show'd by their yellow light and soft,
A band of damsels fair.

Onward they came, like summer wave
That dances to the shore;

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,
Onward 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 be 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

As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage,

When forth on that enchanted stage,
With glittering train of maid and page,
Advanced the castle's queen!

While up the hall she slowly pass'd,
Her dark eye on the king she cast,
That flash'd expression strong;
The longer dwelt that lingering look,
Her cheek the livelier colour took,

And scarce the shame-faced king could brook,
The gaze that lasted long.

A sage, who had that look espied,
Where kindling passion strove with pride,

Had whisper'd, « Prince, beware;
From the chafed tiger rend the prey,
Rush on the lion when at bay,
Bar the fell dragon's blighted way,
But shun that lovely snare!»

XX.

At once, that inward strife suppress'd,
The dame approach'd her warlike guest,
With greeting in that fair degree
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 stranger worth

And dignity their due;

And then she 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.

XXI.

The lady sate the monarch by,
Now in her turn abash'd and shy,
And with indifference seem'd to hear
The toys he whisper'd in her ear.
Her bearing modest was and fair,
Yet shadows of constraint were there,
That show'd an over-cautious care

Some inward thought to hide;
Oft did she pause in full reply,
And oft cast down her large dark eye,
Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh,
That heaved her bosom's pride.
Slight 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?

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,