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 Or sportsman, with his boisterous hollo, May here his wiser spaniel follow; III. But oh, my Lucy, say how long Thy guardians, with contending voice And which is Lucy's? Can it be A new Achilles, sure! the steel Of feathers, lace, and fur: Were all the wealth of Russell mine, 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, 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, Full well advised our Highland host, 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. seem Like objects in a morning dream, We gaze and we admire, yet know When first his Lucy's form he saw; 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, 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 Of the bold Knight of Triermain ? When, dizzied with mine ecstasy, That made thy hand mine own? Save, Lucy, thee alone! V. Again the summons I denied 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, 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, Beguiles the musing eye, Or evening's western flame, In every tide, at every hour, IV. Oft has he traced the charmed mound, 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, 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. |