COME, Lucy! while 'tis 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, Luby, 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.

[See page 259.

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 passed!

III.

And now we reach the favourite 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 ?-
It is because that crimson draws

Its colour from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast,
She would not that her Arthur guessed?
Oh, quicker far is lover's 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 hues 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 shame thine own is placed so low. Thou turn'st thy self-confessing check, As if to meet the breeze's 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 load-star 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 honour 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 hairI only saw the locks they braided; They talked 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. 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.

VII.

My lyre-it is an idle toy,

That borrows accents not its own, Like warbler of Columbian 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 on 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 true,One favouring smile from fair BucCLEUCH! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone.

The mocking-bird.

But, if thou bidd'st, these tones shall tell
Of errant knight and damozelle;
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.
For Lucy loves,-like COLLINS, ill-starred name:
Whose lay's requited was that tardy Fame,
Who bound no laurel round his living head,
Should hang it o'er his monument when dead,—
For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand,
And thread, like him, the maze of Fairy land;
Of golden battlements to view the gleam,
And slumber soft by some Elysian stream:
Such lays she loves,-and, such my Lucy's
choice,

What other song can claim her poet's voice?

CANTO FIRST.

I.

WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain.

That may match with the Baron of Triermain?
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.

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 on her dark-brown hair,
That passed from my bower e'en now?"

V.

Answered him Richard de Brettville; 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."-

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 Helvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,
Of Kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars,
From mystic dreams and course of stars.
He shall tell me if middle earth
To that enchanting shape gave birth,
Or if 'twas but an airy thing,
Such as fantastic slumbers bring,
Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes.
Or fading tints of western skies.
For, by the blessed rood I swear,
If that fair form breathe vital air,
No other maiden by my side
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride !"-

VII.

The faithful page he mounts his steed,
And soon he crossed green Irthing's mead,
Dashed o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain,
And Eden barred his course in vain.
He passed red Penrith's Table Round,
For feats of chivalry renowned,

Left Mayburgh's mound and stones of power,
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 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 many 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 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.

LYULPI'S TALE.

"King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle When Pentecost was o'er;

He journeyed like arrant-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 gulfs the sun
Cast umbered radiance red and dun,
Though never sunbeam could discern
The surface of that sable tarn,

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;
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung,
And torrents, down the gullies flung,
Joined the rude river that brawled 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 planned.

IX.

"O rather he chose, that monarch bold,
On venturous quest to ride,

In plate and mail, by wood and wold,
Than, with ermine trapped and cloth of gold,
In princely bower to bide:

The bursting crash of a foeman's spear,
As it shivered against his mail,

Was merrier music to his ear

Than courtier's whispered tale

And the clash of Caliburn more

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;

XII.

"He rode, till over down and dell

The shade more broad and deeper fell,
And though around the mountain's head
Flowed streams of purple, gold, and red,
Dark at the base, unblessed by beam,

Frowned the black rocks, and roared 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 sunbeams love to lic.
Right glad to feel those beams again,
The king drew up his charger's rein;
With gauntlet raised he screened his sight,
As dazzled with the level light,
And, from beneath his glove of mail,
Scanned at his ease the lovely vale.
While 'gainst the sun his armour bright
Gleamed 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 crowned,
Buttress, and rampire's circling bound,
And mighty keep and tower;
Seemed some primeval giant's hand
The Castle's massive walls had planned,
And ponderous bulwark, to withstand
Ambitious Nimrod's power.

Above the moated entrance slung,
The balanced drawbridge trembling hung,
As jealous of a foe;

Wicket of oak, as iron hard,

With iron studded, clenched, and barred,
And pronged portcullis, joined to guard
The gloomy pass below.

But the gray walls no banners crowned,
Upon 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 frowned,
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 washed the battled mound.
He lighted from his goodly steed,

And he left him to graze on bank and mead;
And slowly he climbed the narrow way,
That reached 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 guessed the hold
Of wizard stern, or goblin grim,
Or pagan of gigantic limb,

The Tyrant of the wold.

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 obeyed the blast,
And down the trembling drawbridge cast.
The vauled 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,
Dispelled at once the gloomy night
That loured along the walls,
And showed the king's astonished 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,
Showed, by their yellow light and soft,
A band of damsels fair!

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

A hundred voices welcome gave,
And welcome o'er and o'er!

A hundred lovely hands assail
The bucklers of the monarch's mail,
And busy laboured to unhasp
Rivet of steel and iron clasp:

One wrapped him in a mantle fair,
And one flung odours on his hair;

His short curled ringlets one smoothed down,
One wreathed them with a myrtle crown.
A bride upon her wedding day

Was tended ne'er by troop so gay.

XVII.

"Loud laughed they all,-the king, in vain,
With questions tasked the giddy train;
Let him entreat, or crave, or call,
'Twas one reply,-loud laughed they all.
Then o'er him mimic chains they fling,
Framed of the fairest flowers of spring.
While some heir gentle force unite,
Onward to drag the wandering knight,
Some, bolder, urge his pace, with blows,
Dealt with the lily or the rose.
Behind him were in triumph borne
The warlike arms he late had worn.
Four of the train combined to rear
The terrors of Tintadgel's spear; .
Two, laughing at their lack of strength,
Dragged Caliburn in cumbrous length;
One, while she aped a martial stride,
Placed on her brows the helmet's pride,
Then screamed, 'twixt laughter and surprise,
To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes.
With revel-shout, and triumph-song,
Thus gaily marched the giddy throng.

XVIII.

"Through many a gallery and hall
They led, I ween, their royal thrail.
At length, beneath a fair arcade
Their march and song at once they stayed.
The eldest maiden of the band,

(The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,) Raised, with imposing air, her hand, And reverent silence did command,

On entrance of their Queen,

And they were mute.-But as a glance
They steal on Arthur's countenance
Bewildered with surprise,
Their smothered mirth again 'gan speak,
In archly dimpled chin and cheek,
And laughter-lighted eyes.

XIX.

"The attributes of these 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 soared 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 passed,
Her dark eye on the king she cast,

That flashed 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 whispered, '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 suppressed,
The dame approached 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 maiden's idle mirth,
Who drew from lonely glens their birth,
Nor knew to pay to stranger worth

And dignity their due:

And then she prayed that he would rest
That night her Castle's honoured guest.
The monarch meetly thanks expressed;
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 abashed and shy,
And with indifference seemed to hear
The toys he whispered in her ear.
Her bearing modest was and fair,
Yet shadows of constraint were there,
That showed 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 checked 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 guessed,"
That this assumed restraint expressed
More ardent passions in the breast,
Than ventured to the eye.

Closer he pressed, while beakers rang,
While maidens laughed 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?

Or wherefore trace, from what slight cause
Its source one tyrant passion draws,
Till, mastering all within.

Where lives the man that has not tried,
How mirth can into folly glide,
And folly into sin!"

CANTO SECOND.

I.

LYULPH'S TALE CONTINUED. "ANOTHER day, another day, And yet another, glides away! The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane, Maraud on Britain's shores again. Arthur, of Christendom the flower, Lies loitering in a lady's bower; The horn, that foeman wont to fear, Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer, And Caliburn, the British pride, Hangs useless by a lover's side.

II.

"Another day, another day,
And yet another, glides away!
Heroic plans in pleasure drowned,
He thinks not of the Table Round:
In lawless loye 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 rest
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 wakening 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 deemed to preside
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride,
By youths and virgins worshipped 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 trained to guile that lady fair,
To sink in slothful sin and shame
The champions of the Christian name.
Well skilled to keep vain thoughts alive,
And all to promise, nought to give,
The timid youth had hope in store,
The bold and pressing gained no more.
As wildered children leave their home,
After the rainbow's arch to roam,
Her lovers bartered fair esteem,
Faith fame, and honour, for a dream.

IV.

"Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame
She practised thus-till Arthur came;
Then, frail humanity had part,
And all the mother claimed her heart.
Forgot each rule her father gave,
Sunk from a princess to a slave,
Too late must Guendolen deplore,
He, that has all, can hope no more!
Now must she see her lover strain,
At every turn, her feeble chain;
Watch, to new-bind each knot, and shrink
To view each fast-decaying link.
Art she invokes to Nature's aid,
Her vest to zone, her locks to braid;
Each varied pleasure heard her call,
The feast, the tourney, and the ball:
Her storied lore she next applies,
Taxing her mind to aid her eyes,
Now more than mortal wise, and then
In female softness sunk again;