ページの画像
PDF
ePub

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 tingle drown'd,
While the chasse-cafè 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 choose 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-milliner of modern days?

[blocks in formation]

Were all the wealth of Russell mine,
And all the rank of Howard's line,
All would I give for leave to dry
That dewdrop 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 spellSay, 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!

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO

THIRD.

I.

LONGloved, longwoo'd, and lately won,
My life's best hope, and now mine own!
Doth not this rude and Alpine glen
Recall 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, nor the chariot nor the train Could gape of vulgar wonder gain, But when old Allan would expound Of Beal-na-paish1 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. See how the little runnels leap, In threads of silver, down the steep, To swell the brooklet's moan!

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

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 deЛ; 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,
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

When, dizzied with mine ecstasy,
Nought past, or present, or to be,
Could I or think on, hear, or see,

That made thy hand mine own?

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 choose
The good old classic form-my Muse,
(For Harp's an over-scutchèd phrase,
Worn out by bards of modern days)

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

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 grey Lyulph's tale.
Thus as he lay, the lamp of night
Was quivering on his armour 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

Must only shoot from battled wall; To buttress'd walls their shapeless

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.

range,

Fain think, by transmutation strange,

He saw grey turrets rise. But scarce his heart with hope throbb'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.

[blocks in formation]
« 前へ次へ »