Puslapio vaizdai





LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower
At eve; how softly then
Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse,
Speak from the woody glen!

Fit music for a solemn vale!

And holier seems the ground To him who catches on the gale The spirit of a mournful tale,

Embodied in the sound.


Not far from that fair sight whereon
The Pleasure-house is reared,

As Story says, in antique days,

A stern-brow'd house appeared;

Foil to a jewel rich in light
There set, and guarded well;

Cage for a bird of plumage bright,
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight
Beyond her native dell.


To win this bright bird from her cage,
To make this gem their own,
Came Barons bold, with store of gold,
And Knights of high renown;
But one she prized, and only One;
Sir Eglamore was he;

Full happy season, when was known,
Ye Dales and Hills! to you alone

Their mutual loyalty


Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen,
Thy brook, and bowers of holly;
Where Passion caught what Nature taught,
That all but Love is folly;

Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play,
Doubt came not, nor regret;

To trouble hours that winged their way,
As if through an immortal day
Whose sun could never set.


But in old times Love dwelt not long
Sequester'd with repose;

Best throve the fire of chaste desire,
Fanned by the breath of foes.
"A conquering lance is beauty's test,

And proves the Lover true;"
So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed
The drooping Emma to his breast,
And looked a blind adieu.


They parted. Well with him it fared
Through wide-spread regions errant;
A knight of proof in love's behoof,
The thirst of fame his warrant:
And she her happiness can build
On woman's quiet hours;

Though faint, compared with spear and shield,
The solace beads and masses yield,

And needlework and flowers.


Yet blest was Emma when she heard
Her Champion's praise recounted;
Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim
And high her blushes mounted;
Or when a bold heroic lay

She warbled from full heart:
Delightful blossoms for the May

Of absence! but they will not stay,
Born only to depart.


Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills

Whatever path he chooses;

As if his orb, that owns no curb,

Received the light her's loses.

He comes not back; an ampler space

Requires for nobler deeds;

He ranges on from place to place,
Till of his doings is no trace

But what her fancy breeds.


His fame may spread, but in the past
Her spirit finds its centre;

Clear sight she has of what he was,
And that would now content her.
"Still is he my devoted knight?"

The tear in answer flows;

Month falls on month with heavier weight;
Day sickens round her, and the night
Is empty of repose.


In sleep she sometimes walked abroad,
Deep sighs with quick words blending,
Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen
With fancied spots contending;

But she is innocent of blood, —

The moon is not more pure

That shines aloft, while through the wood

She thrids her way, the sounding Flood

Her melancholy lure!


While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, And owls alone are waking,

In white arrayed, glides on the Maid

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