That beam'dout bright, and noble, and free,
With the light of his inward purity.
He knelt to her in her beauty's pride,
And fondly, passionately cried,

"O comfort thee, my angel love,

This world has now in store for me, No joy in earth, no bliss above,

But would be worthless without thee. Nay, doubt me not-I will obey

And breathe this blessed hour to none; My dreams by night, my thoughts by day, Shall be of thee and thee alone. Ah! fear not that an evil hour

Those join'd in bands so pure should
sever;

Even Time itself shall have no power,
Except to make them last for ever."

They have parted-the knight hath ta'en his way

Through thicket and wood to his castle gray.

Now he joy'd in the soft and balmy air, And the lovely landscape, rich and rare, As if Eden's self were blooming there! Now he bounded along the pathway green! For joy had given him wings, I weenThat joy of the heart that makes us gay, And happy and light as the birds that play In the summer air, and soar on high Till they seem but specks in the deep blue sky.

How oft, by rapture upborne, we long

Like them to soar far, far away, And pour out, as we glance along, Our overflowing hearts in song,

Merry and free and blithe as they! Oh, say, if then indeed there be One happy isle in life's wild sea; In that broad desert one green spot, Whose flowers and palm-trees wither not; 'Mong lights that lure us but to fly, One joy that is not vanity?

O, is it not when young Love flings

The fulness of his raptures o'er us, When from the first small bud Hope springs,

And stands at once in flower before us! Then only do we feel again

As we in boyhood felt;
The cares that on our hearts had lain,

Like snow in the sunshine melt.
There are minstrel fancies in the brain
That refresh the soul like morning dew,
And one by one, each fatal stain,
Which all the blights through which we
past

Had unperceived upon it cast,
And half obscured its native hue,

that joy's radiance vanish too. Oh! if there be on earth a bliss Most pure and lasting, it is this!

Thus high of heart and gay of mood, The knight pass'd through the merry greenwood.

He bounded up the pathway steep
That led to his loved and lonely keep,
And there alone at the inner gate,
Did a youthful page in silence wait,
And he held the rein of a noble steed,
Fit for a monarch at his need,
When he sallies forth in his pride and
power,
Encompass'd by his kingdom's flower.
Sir Lionel he did featly greet,

And said in accents low and sweet,
"The lady thou dost love so well
Greets thee through me, Sir Lionel,
And sends thee this good steed, that is
The noblest one in earth, I wis.
Thou wilt find no breaches in thy walls,
But peace and plenty in thy halls;
And gold, and followers, and lands,
All gifts from thy bright lady's hands.
She bids thee think on what befell
This blessed morn at the ruin'd well,
And treasure it in thine inmost breast,
That, loving and loved, ye may both be

b lest.

Sir Lionel seized the broider'd rein, And turn'd to look for the page in vain. The message done-the page is gone, Sir Lionel stands there alone. When last within his hall he sate, As a hermit's cell 'twas desolate ; But now it rings with laughter and glee,

And re-echoes with joyous minstrelsy. There are brethren of the gaye science, From Normandy and from Provence ; There is many a squire and gallant knight,

And men-at-arms, in armour bright; From the battlements are trumpets sound

ing,

And destriers in the court-yard bounding,
And sturdy yeomen lead around
Many a fierce and noble hound,

And falconers, of cunning rare,

With hawks of choicest race are there.
The voice of revelry is sent
From donjon-keep to battlement;
Within-without-all-all is gay
As on a prince's bridal-day.
As in a dream walked Sir Lionel,
But an onward course he kept
Till he came to the old chapelle,
Where his noble fathers slept.
Each Baron is carved with his shield of
pride

And sword of conquest by his side;
The gauntleted hands are meekly pressed,
Palm to palm, on each armed breast.
They died in peace and hope divine,
And had fought for the faith in Pales-
tine.

Mary mother! with us dwell,
And grant that we may die as well!
By the altar stands a lady fair-
Benedicite! 'tis no shape of air-

Sir Lionel is at her side;

It is his own-his fairy bride-
And he swears to her on a holy shrine
His grandsire brought from Palestine,
That he through the world with her
would go,

And love her for ever in weal or woe,
And many a tender vow beside,

A place of refuge and of rest
Where we can fly to when opprest,
Or wronged, or pining with sorrow and

care,

pride.

There's a voice of threefold revelry

Within the castle wall,
And beaker clang and minstrelsy,

And guests of high degree,
In the young knight's crowded hall—
The first in bearing as in place,
Sir Lionel sits beneath the Dais,

But not alone;
Invisible to mortal eye,

Reclines that meek and lovely one,
The beautiful and fairy bride,
Blushing by her lover's side,
Unseen by all, but ever nigh-
When in the hall he leads the dance,
When in the lists he breaks a lance,
When his falcons featliest fly,
When clearest rings the hunter's cry,
That fairy form, to him more dear
Than the world beside, is ever near.
They see not the lady of his choice,
They hear not the sound of her gentle
voice;

But in his ears her accents float

Soft as the nightingale's sweetest note, And he suns himself in her eyes of light Till his bosom reels with intense delight. Oft wandering far from town and tower, Through the greenwood's tangled glade, In some thick and mossy bower, Gemmed with many an opening flower, Or 'neath some forest monarch's shade, They sit for many a blissful hour,

Through storm and sunshine changing

never.

Pleasures there are, alas! untrue,
That vanish away as the morning dew,
But leaving behind them a rankling
smart,

A sorrow and shame that will not depart ;
But there is a rose without a thorn,
Blooming and sweet at eventide

As it was in the dewy morn;

Had we no other blessing beside,
We might walk through life in joy and
pride.

That rose is a heart that loves us well,
Whose hopes, affections, in us dwell—
It casts a radiance on our way,
Holy and pure, that never dies;
It turns our darkness into day,
And makes this earth a Paradise.
Alas! for those whose weary lot
It is to see this lovely flower-
Adore its beauty-feel its power—
Yet wear it not.

They wander along their path alone,
Their tears unheeded or unknown-
What heart with them will sympathize?
A foreign hand their eyes shall close-
A foreign hand their limbs compose—
When the sleep of death upon them lies,
For them no infant lips shall move,
No pious knees be meekly bent,
In supplication and in love,
Around a father's monument.

power

What are riches or might to them

Who are crowned with love's own diadem? If in life's chaplet one bright gem

Excels all others, as the sun

The roses that he shines upon-
Oh! if there can be an excess,
On earth, of unmixed happiness,
It is, it is the consciousness

That there is a fond and faithful breast
Thrilling with love for us alone-
A peaceful and a holy shrine,

Ah! pity them! how many a one,

Of feelings and affections bright
And beautiful, has seen one night,
When his summer hopes were highest,
blight

And nip the blossoms that were rife

And lovely on his tree of life!
With lofty hopes they trode the way

That led to the shrine of that costly
gem;

But fortune is false as an April day—
Bright Lady, pity them!

FROM minster old and convent tower, The bells are ringing with gladsome

power

It is the feast of Pentecost; The sun is bright, the fields are gay With the banners of an host. A kingdom is there in battle array.

The King is stern and haughty of mood,
And swore by the mass and holy rood,
That his knights should strive one sum-
mer's day

In honour of his queen,
And prove by arms that on this earth
A fairer lady ne'er had birth—

And there were pennons seen Of knights and barons of high degree, Each with love-tokens in his crest, Each burning to lay lance in rest, And conquer for his lady fair. From France and Spain and Italy, And countries far beyond the sea, Full of high hope these knights came; They talk, with many a laugh and jest, How well and featly they will wrest The honour from that kingdom's best. In the minster high and holy, With clasped hands and aspect lowly, Each warrior bends before the shrine, And listens to the words divine

As humbly as a sainted maid. The mass is said, the prayers are prayed, The knights are in the lists arrayed; The queen, in all her beauty's power, Encompassed by the choicest flower Of ladies of fair form and face, Sits brilliant underneath the dais, And looks down on the mimic war More beautiful than every one, Ev'n as the moon is lovelier far

Than the night flowers she shines

upon.

A glorious sight it was to see
Those ardent sons of chivalry,

With their gallant steeds and armour bright,

Their waving plumes and quivering lances,

As they dashed through the lists as swift as light,

And brilliant as their ladies' glances. They are gone-they have passed away Like the sun at the close of day

They passed away in their power and might,

As knights should do, in the joyous fight,
And holy priests their requiem sang,
And the solemn bells at their parting rang,
And bright eyes wept upon their tomb.
Jesus! theirs was a happy doom!
But we must toil through gloomy days,
And die without such meed of praise!
The base weed grows in their fathers'
halls,

There remains no stone of their castle walls,

But weeds far baser clog our spirit!
We are those who should inherit
Truth, and honour, and courage, and love,
For men on earth and the Saints above-
But the light that led our fathers on
Where danger was rife, and glory won,
That light for us is powerless-
Ah! worldly mists obscure its beams!
Go, seek thou in the wilderness
For summer fruits and icy streams,
Seek peace where loud the trumpet blows,
Mid burning lava seek the rose;
But hope not to find in any land
The fearless sword and open hand,

The soul that speaks in the guileless eye,
The true love and the courtesy.
Alas! they are prized on earth no more;
Our hearts are faint, and our bosoms cold,
Our hands grasp not at the sword, but
gold.

But such was not the knight of yore.

Of port as meek as is a maid,
No villanie he ever said

In all his life to any wight-
Ever rejoiced to mount his steed,
And succour beauty at her need;
In a rightful cause he knew not fear,
And for suff'ring virtue had a tear—

This was a perfect gentle knight.
Right well they strove-but one by one,
Ere beamed in heaven the mid-day sun,
The foreign knights, o'ercome and spent,
Saw glory's chaplet from them rent.
Sir Lionel had stood that day,

Gazing on the varying fray,

And ever passed o'er his brow a cloud, As yeoman and squire, with greeting loud,

Hailed the queen's champions as they won.
But when the last lance was broken,
When the herald loud had spoken,
Proclaiming her the fairest dame
That ever smiled on knightly game;
And called on each knight to confess
They ne'er beheld such loveliness-
Alas! then forgot Sir Lionel
The vows he swore at the fairy well-

He closed his vizor and seized his lance,
And cleaving the dense mass asunder,
In the broad lists, with voice like thunder,
And glowing cheek, and fiery glance,
Proclaimed, there was not on earth an-
other

Who with his lady might compare,
And he would prove it knightly there,
Come all against him who might dare,
So help him God and Mary Mother!
As he spoke he thought there sounded
nigh

One sad alas! one gentle sigh-
He heeded it not, for his soul was full
Of her he thought so beautiful;
And of gaining praise and high renown,
And of winning for her the victor's crown.
He remembered not, in his spirit's pride,
Of all she told him would betide,
If e'er he disclosed his secret love-
Aye! ev'n in prayer to the saints above.
But in after time the thought of that day
Heavy and cold on his bosom lay.
Knights were not wanting then, I ween,
To break a lance for their lovely queen.
The trumpets sound-their coursers
bound-

They meet in furious shock,
As the waves that on the rock
The blindness of their fury pour,
With flash and foam and ceaseless roar;
But all in vain-for its madness spent,

Calm falls, like sleep, on the troubled

ocean,

Thou diest, aye, within this hour!" The warrior raised his eagle eye,

motion,

Sink softly at the proud rock's feet,
That stands unmoved as it stood before:
Thus the knights are backwards bent,
Who in the lists have dared to meet
Sir Lionel in mid career.

They paid it dear-with a single spear
To earth he bore them one by one;
And now he rides in the lists alone.
Nobly and well did his gallant steed
Bear him in this hour of need-
'Twas the first gift of his lady bright
To him she loved, the gentle knight.
A moody man was the King, I trow,
And wrath frown'd stormlike on his brow;
And while all eyes were in wonder bent
On the victor of the tournament,
The marshals of the field he sent,
Before him the unknown knight to
bring.

They did his bidding gracefully,
In terms of high-born courtesy,
And Sir Lionel stood before the King.
He cast the helmet from his brow-
More enraged by far is the monarch now,
For his liegeman there before him stands,
Who held from him his fief and lands,
And he has shamed the Queen to-day,
And borne the prize from her knights
away.

To master his burning wrath he strove,
And said, "Sir Knight, for thy lady love
Thou hast done thy devoir manfully;
I pray thee of thy courtesy
To name the name of one so fair."
Sir Lionel stood in silence there,
For his heart was numbed by the sad

All things that on earth were dear,
Or bright, or beautiful to him,

He had for ever lost that day

He had dashed the cup of life away
That sparkled to the brim,
With delights more rare than tongue
could tell.

He thought then on the fairy well,
And all the vows that there were spoken;
His faith is false—his vows are broken-
His lady love is lost to him.
And in that moment's bitter grief

He wrung his mailed hands bitterly, And his strong frame shook like an aspen leaf,

But answer none to the King gave he. The monarch, roused to fury, cried, "Now, good St Denis be my guide! Thus on my throne am I defied? Ha! caitiff! thou art in my power; And bringest thou not this lady bright Here on the instant to my sight,

"Sir King, he said, it may not be
That thou my lady-love shouldst see.
Never shall I behold her more.
My blood like water thou mayst pour,
It matters not-my hope is flown-
My once glad heart is desolate.
There is one refuge, one alone,

And thou wilt open by thy doom
That dark, but gladly-welcomed gate,

Which leads to quiet and the tomb."
He crossed his arms upon his chest,
And stood in such calm and deathlike rest,
But for the breathing, you had not known
That the noble form was a living one.
On the King's brow is an angry spot,
And death had been the good knight's lot,
But the peers, who loved the warrior true,
Right earnestly for him did sue.
But still the doom is sad, alas!.
If, within a year and day,

She came not there, that lady gay,
For whom the knight had won the field,
And in beauty did not surpass
The beautiful and youthful Queen,
Stripped of his arms, reversed his shield,
He must die a traitor's death, I ween.

Sir Lionel sits in the prisoners' tower,
And droops like a fast withering flower;
He breathed the breath of joyous spring,
He heard the lark and throstle sing;
But, alas! he could not forth.
And when blithe summer decked the
earth,

He could hear the merry hinds rejoice-
He listened to the reaper's voice,
And longed a peasant's son to be,
So his love were with him, and he free.
He could hear the clarion's thrilling note,

As the knights in long procession went
To banquet or to tournament;
And oft the lover's strain would float

Through the balmy air of the silent eve, Ev'n to his dark and narrow cellHe knew those melting strains right well. He had oft sung such at eventide To his lost and lovely fairy bride

How could he then not grieve? And in the sad and failing year, When the fruit is gone and the leaf is sere, The hunters, furiously and fast, With whoop and bugle-note swept past; And it made him sadder of mood, For well he loved the merry green woodHe pined away and loathed his food. He had loved to hear the gay lark sing,

Rather than dwell within narrow walls, And his buoyant spirit ever took wing As through nature's wilds he roamed.

In the lone mountain-by torrent falls, In the silent glen, by the arrowy stream, Where wild winds blew and white waves foamed,