The Bridal of Triermain.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

COME, LUCY! while 't is morning hour
The woodland brook we needs must pass;
So ere the sun assume his power
We shelter in our poplar bower,
Where dew lies long upon the flower,
Though vanished from the velvet grass.
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge
May serve us for a sylvan bridge;
For here compelled to disunite,
Round petty isles the runnels glide,
And chafing off their puny spite,
The shallow murmurers waste their might,
Yielding to footstep free and light

A dry-shod pass from side to side.

II.

Nay, why this hesitating pause? And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws.

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 uprear, Shall shrink beneath the burden dear

Of form so slender, light, and fine. So now, the danger dared at last, Look back and smile at perils past!

III.

And now we reach the favorite glade, Paled in by copsewood, 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; Mossed 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 color from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast,
She would not that her Arthur guessed?
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 breezes 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 loadstar of each heart and eye, My fair one leads the glittering ball, Will her stolen 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 assigned 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 honor true,

That boasts a pulse so warm as mine?
They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare
Matched with thine eyes, I thought it faded:
They praised the pearls that bound thy hair -
I only saw the locks they braided;
They talked 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 ranked in Fortune's roll,

I might have learned their choice unwise Who rate the dower above the soul

And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes.

That borrows accents not its own, Like warbler of Colombian 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 trueOne favoring smile from fair BUCCLEUCH By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone.

--

VIII.

But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell
Of errant knight, and damoselle;
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.

WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain
That may match with the Baron of Trier-
main?

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 widowed dove,
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave
Where never sunbeam kissed 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 crowned,

Generous as spring-dews that bless the

glad ground;

Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain,

That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

II.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,

His blood it was fevered, his breathing

was deep.

He had been pricking against the Scot, The foray was long and the skirmish hot; His dinted helm and his buckler's plight Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still, Harpers must lull him to his rest With the slow soft tunes he loves the best Till sleep sink down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill.

III.

It was the dawn of an autumn day;
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray
That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head,
And faintly gleamed each painted pane
Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that baron bold awoke.
Starting he woke and loudly did call,
Rousing his menials in bower and hall
While hastily he spoke.

IV.

Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall,

So sweet, so soft, so faint,

It seemed an angel's whispered call
To an expiring saint?

And hearken, my merry-men! 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 passed from my bower e'en now!'

V.

Answered him Richard de Bretville; he
Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy, ·
'Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sat since midnight close,

When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings

Murmured from our melting strings,

And hushed 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-formed sigh
When she thinks her lover near."
Answered Philip of Fasthwaite tall ;
He kept guard in the outer-hall,
'Since at eve our watch took post,
Not a foot has thy portal crossed;

Else had I heard the steps, though low And light they fell as when earth receives In morn of frost the withered 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 reddened 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 Dunmailraise.
Gifted like his gifted race,
He the characters can trace
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,

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 checked 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 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 Saint 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.