Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight

Has reach'd a bower, where milder light
Through crimson curtains fell;
Such soften'd shade the hill receives,
Her purple veil when twilight leaves
Upon its western swell.

That bower, the gazer to bewitch,
Had wondrous store of rare and rich
As e'er was seen with eye;
For there by magic skill, I wis,
Form of each thing that living is

Was limn'd in proper dye.
All seem'd to sleep-the timid hare
On form, the stag upon his lair,
The eagle in her eyrie fair

Between the earth and sky.
But what of pictured rich and rare
Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where,
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair,

He saw King Arthur's child! Doubt, and anger, and dismay, From her brow had pass'd away, Forgot was that fell tourney-day,

For, as she slept, she smiled: It seem'd that the repentant Seer Her sleep of many a hundred year With gentle dreams beguiled.

XXXVIII.

That form of maiden loveliness,

"Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, That ivory chair, that silvan dress, The arms and ankles bare, express

Of Lyulph's tale the truth. Still upon her garment's hem Vanoc's blood made purple gem, And the warder of command Cumber'd still her sleeping hand; Still her dark locks dishevell❜d flow From net of pearl o'er breast of snow; And so fair the slumberer seems, That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams, Vapid all and void of might, Hiding half her charms from sight.

Motionless a while he stands,

Folds his arms and clasps his hands,
Trembling in his fitful joy,
Doubtful how he should destroy
Long-enduring spell;

Doubtful, too, when slowly rise
Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes,
What these eyes shall tell.-
"St George! St Mary! can it be,
That they will kindly look on me!"

XXXIX.

Gently, lo! the Warrior kneels, Soft that lovely hand he steals, Soft to kiss, and soft to claspBut the warder leaves her grasp;

Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder! Gyneth startles from her sleep, Totters Tower, and trembles Keep,

Burst the Castle-walls asunder! Fierce and frequent were the shocks,— Melt the magic halls away; But beneath their mystic rocks, In the arms of bold De Vaux, Safe the princess lay; Safe and free from magic power, Blushing like the rose's flower Opening to the day;

And round the Champion's brows were bound

The crown that Druidess had wound,
Of the green laurel-bay.

And this was what remain❜d of all
The wealth of each enchanted hall,
The Garland and the Dame:
But where should Warrior seek the meed,
Due to high worth for daring deed,
Except from LOVE and FAME!

CONCLUSION.

I.

My Lucy, when the Maid is won,
The Minstrel's task, thou know'st, is
done;

And to require of bard
That to his dregs the tale should run,
Were ordinance too hard.
Our lovers, briefly be it said,
Wedded as lovers wont to wed,

When tale or play is o'er;

Lived long and blest, loved fond and true, And saw a numerous race renew

The honours that they bore. Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays, In morning mist or evening maze, Along the mountain lone, That fairy fortress often mocks His gaze upon the castled rocks

Of the Valley of St. John; But never man since brave De Vaux The charmed portal won. 'Tis now a vain illusive show, That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow, Or the fresh breeze hath blown.

II.

But see, my love, where far below
Our lingering wheels are moving slow,
The whiles, up-gazing still,
Our menials eye our steepy way,
Marvelling, perchance, what whim can
stay

Our steps, when eve is sinking gray,
On this gigantic hill.

So think the vulgar-Life and time
Ring all their joys in one dull chime
Of luxury and ease;

And, O! beside these simple knaves,
How many better born are slaves

To such coarse joys as these,—
Dead to the nobler sense that glows
When nature's grander scenes unclose!
But, Lucy, we will love them yet,
The mountain's misty coronet,

The greenwood, and the wold; And love the more, that of their maze Adventure high of other days

By ancient bards is told, Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale, Some moral truth in fiction's veil: Nor love them less, that o'er the hill The evening breeze, as now, comes chill;her warm,

My love shall wrap

And, fearless of the slippery way, While safe she trips the heathy brae, Shall hang on Arthur's arm.

FAIR Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning wind,
We yet may hear the hour
Peal'd over orchard and canal,
With voice prolong'd and measured fall,

From proud St. Michael's tower; Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beeches' glossy bough

For many a league around, With birch and darksome oak between, Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,

Of tangled forest ground. Stems planted close by stems defy The adventurous foot-the curious eye For access seeks in vain ; And the brown tapestry of leaves, Strew'd on the blighted ground, receives Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. No opening glade dawns on our way, No streamlet, glancing to the ray,

Our woodland path has cross'd; And the straight causeway which we tread,

Prolongs a line of dull arcade, Unvarying through the unvaried shade Until in distance lost.

II.

A brighter, livelier scene succeeds;
In groups the scattering wood recedes,
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,
And corn-fields glance between ;
The peasant, at his labour blithe,
Plies the hook'd staff and shorten'd
scythe :-

But when these ears were green, Placed close within destruction's scope, Full little was that rustic's hope

Their ripening to have seen! And, lo, a hamlet and its fane :Let not the gazer with disdain Their architecture view;

For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, And disproportion'd spire, are thine, Immortal WATERLOO !

III.

Fear not the heat, though full and high
The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky,
And scarce a forest straggler now
To shade us spreads a greenwood bough;
These fields have seen a hotter day
Than e'er was fired by sunny ray.
Yet one mile on-yon shatter'd hedge
Crests the soft hill whose long smooth
ridge

Looks on the field below,
And sinks so gently on the dale,
That not the folds of Beauty's veil
In easier curves can flow.

Brief space from thence, the ground again
Ascending slowly from the plain,

Forms an opposing screen, Which, with its crest of upland ground, Shuts the horizon all around.

The soften'd vale between Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread;

Not the most timid maid need dread
To give her snow-white palfrey head
On that wide stubble-ground;
Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush, are there,
Her course to intercept or scare,

Nor fosse nor fence are found, Save where, from out her shatter'd bowers,

Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers.

IV.

Now, see'st thou aught in this lone scene
Can tell of that which late hath been?---
A stranger might reply,
"The bare extent of stubble-plain
Seems lately lighten'd of its grain ;

B B