Telling her dreams to jealous Fear! Where was it then, the sociable sprite That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish! O bliss of blissful hours! The boon of Heaven's decreeing, While yet in Eden's bowers Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate! The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing, They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate! Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose! Late autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows If this were ever his, in outward being, Whate'er it was, it is no longer so; ALICE DU CLOS: OR THE FORKED TONGUE. A BALLAD. "One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft: and a slit tongue be his blazon!"-Caucasian Proverb. "THE Sun is not yet risen, But the dawn lies red on the dew: Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away, Is seeking, Lady, for you. Put on your dress of green, Your buskins and your quiver; Lord Julian is a hasty man, Long waiting brook'd he never. I dare not doubt him, that he means Your lord and master for to be, And you his lady gay. O Lady! throw your book aside! I would not that my Lord should chide." Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight To Alice, child of old Du Clos, As spotless fair, as airy light As that moon-shiny doe, The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest, She in the garden bower below O close your eyes, and strive to see While yet with keen unblunted light The morning star shone opposite The lattice of her bower- Of flight and fear he stay'd behind, O! Alice could read passing well, The vassal's speech, his taunting vein, She rais'd her head, nor did she deign "Off, traitor friend! how dar'st thou fix Thy wanton gaze on me? And why, against my earnest suit, Does Julian send by thee? "Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure: Fair speed his shafts to-day! I follow here a stronger lure, She said: and with a baleful smile Like a huge billow from a bark That shouldering sideways in mid plunge, And staggering onward, leaves the ear And Alice sate with troubled mien A moment; for the scoff was keen, There stands the flow'ring may-thorn tree! The black and shadowy stem;- With tear-drop glittering to a smile, Mimics the hunter's shout. "Hip! Florian, hip! To horse, to horse! Go, bring the palfrey out. "My Julian's out with all his clan, And, bonny boy, you wis, Lord Julian is a hasty man, Who comes late, comes amiss.” Now Florian was a stripling squire, That toss'd his head in joy and pride, But blush'd to hold her train. The huntress is in her dress of green,- The squire no younger e'er was seen- And had not Ellen stay'd the race, It chanced that up the covert lane, A neighbour knight prick'd on to join And with him must Lord Julian go, In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride, He bit his lip, he wrung his glove, But pretext none could find or frame! Alas! alas! and well-a-day! It grieves me sore to think, to say, That names so seldom meet with Love, Yet Love wants courage without a name! Straight from the forest's skirt the trees |