He frowned and sighed, the monarch bold:-
"I give-what I may not withhold;
For, not for danger, dread, or death,
Must British Arthur break his faith.
Too late I mark, thy mother's art
Hath taught thee this relentless part.
I blame her not, for she had wrong,
But not to these my faults belong.
Use, then, the warder as thou wilt;
But trust me that, if life be spilt,
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace,
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place."-
With that he turn'd his head aside,
Nor brooked to gaze upon her pride,
As, with the truncheon raised, she sate
The arbitress of mortal fate;

Nor brooked to mark, in ranks disposed,
How the bold champions stood opposed;
For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell
Upon his ear like passing bell!
Then first from sight of martial fray
Did Britain's hero turn away.
XXIII.

But Gyneth heard the clangor high,
As hears the hawk the partridge-cry.
Oh, blame her not! the blood was hers,
That at the trumpet's summons stirs!-
And e'en the gentlest female eye
Might the brave strife of chivalry
Awhile untroubled view;

So well accomplished was each knight,
To strike and to defend in fight,
Their meeting was a goodly sight,

While plate and mail held true.
The lists with painted plumes were strown,
Upon the wind at random thrown,

But helm and breast-plate bloodless shone;
It seemed their feathered crests alone
Should this encounter rue.

And ever, as the combat grows,
The trumpet's cheery voice arose,

Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows,
Heard while the gale of April blows
The merry green wood through.

XXIV.

But soon to earnest grew their game,

The spears drew blood, the swords struck flame,
And, horse and man, to ground there came

Knights who shall rise no more!
Gone was the pride the war that graced,
Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced,
And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced,
And pennons streamed with gore.
Gone, too, were fence and fair array,
And desperate strength made deadly way
At random through the bloody fray,
And blows were dealt with head-long sway,
Unheeding where they fell;

And now the trumpet's clamours seem
Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream,
Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream,
The sinking seaman's knell!

XXV.

Seemed in this dismal hour, that Fate Would Camlan's ruin antedate,

And spare dark Mordred's crime; Already gasping on the ground Lie twenty of the Table Round, Of chivalry the prime.

Arthur, in anguish, tore away
From head and beard his tresses gray,
And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay,

And quaked with ruth and fear;
But still she deem'd her mother's shade
Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade
The sign that had the slaughter staid,
And chid the rising tear.
Then Brunor, Taulus, Mador, fell,
Helias the White, and Lionel,

And many a champion more;
Rochemont and Dinadam are down,
And Ferrand of the Forest Brown
Lies gasping in his gore.
Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd
Even to the confines of the list,
Young Vanoc of the beardless face,
(Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race,)
O'erpowered at Gyneth's footstool bled,"
His heart's blood died her sandals red.
But then the sky was overcast,
Then howled at once a whirlwind's blast,
And, rent by sudden throes,
Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth,
And from the gulf,-tremendous birth!
The form of Merlin rose.

XXVI. Sternly the wizard prophet eyed The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, And sternly raised his hand:-"Madmen," he said, "your strife forbear! And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear

The doom thy fates demand!
Long shall close in stony sleep
Eyes for ruth that would not weep;
Iron lethargy shall seal

Heart that pity scorned to feel.
Yet, because thy mother's art
Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart,
And for love of Arthur's race,
Punishment is blent with grace,
Thou shalt bear thy penance lone,
In the valley of saint John,

And this weird shall overtake thee;--
Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee,
For feats of arms as far renowned
As warrior of the Table Round.
Long endurance of thy slumber
Well may teach the world to number
All their woes from Gyneth's pride,
When the Red Cross champions died."-
XXVII.

As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye
Slumber's load begins to lie;
Fear and anger vainly strive
Still to keep its light alive.
Twice, with effort and with pause,
O'er her brow her hand she draws;
Twice her strength in vain she tries,
From the fatal chair to rise;
Merlin's magic doom is spoken,
Vanoc's death must now be wroken.
Slow the dark-fringed eye-lids fall,
Curtaining each azure ball,
Slowly as on summer eves
Violets fold their dusky leaves.
The weighty baton of command
Now bears down her sinking hand,
On her shoulder droops her head;
Net of pearl and golden thread,

• Doom.

Bursting, gave her locks to flow
O'er her arm and breast of snow.
And so lovely seem'd she there,
Spell-bound in her ivory chair,
That her angry sire, repenting,
Craved stern Merlin for relenting,
And the champions, for her sake,
Would again the contest wake;
Till, in necromantic night,
Gyneth vanish'd from their sight.
XXVIII.

Still she bears her weird alone,
In the valley of saint John;
And her semblance oft will seem
Mingling in a champion's dream,
Of her weary lot to plain,
And crave his aid to burst her chain.
While her wondrous tale was new,
Warriors to her rescue drew,
East and west, and south and north,
From the Liffey, Thames, and Forth.
Most have sought in vain the glen,
Tower nor castle could they ken;
Not at every time or tide,
Nor by every eye, descried.
Fast and vigil must be borne,
Many a night in watching worn,
Ere an eye of mortal powers
Can discern those magic towers.
Of the persevering few,
Some from hopeless task withdrew,
When they read the dismal threat
Graved upon the gloomy gate.
Few have braved the yawning door,
And those few return'd no more.
In the lapse of time forgot,
Well nigh lost is Gyneth's lot;
Sound her sleep as in the tomb,
Till waken'd by the trump of doom.

END OF LYULPH'S TALE.

I.

Here pause, my tale; for all too soon,
My Lucy, comes the hour of noon.
Already from thy lofty dome
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam,
And, each, to kill the goodly day
That God has granted them, his way
Of lazy sauntering has sought;
Lordings and witlings not a few,
Incapable of doing aught,

Yet ill at ease with nought to do.
Here is no longer place for me;
For, Lucy, thou would'st blush to see
Some phantom, fashionably thin,
With limb of lath and kerchief'd chin,
And lounging gape, or sneering grin,
Steal sudden on our privacy.
And how should I, so humbly born,
Endure the graceful spectre's scorn!
Faith! ill I fear, while conjuring wand
Of English oak is hard at hand."
II.

Or grant the hour be all too soon
For Hessian boot and pantaloon,
And grant the lounger seldom strays
Beyond the smooth and gravell'd maze,
Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train
Holds hearts of more adventurous strain.
Artists are hers, who scorn to trace

Their rules from Nature's boundless grace,

But their right paramount assert
To limit her by pedant art,
Damoing whate'er of vast and fair
Exceeds a canvass three feet square.
This thicket, for their gumption fit,
May furnish such a happy bit.
Bards, too, are hers, wont to recite
Their own sweet lays by waxen light,
Half in the salver's tinkle drown'd,
While the chasse-café glides around!
And such may hither secret stray,
To labour an extempore:

Or sportsman, with his boisterous hollo,
May here his wiser spaniel follow,
Or stage-struck Juliet may presume
To choose this bower for tiring room;
And we alike must shun regard,
From painter, player, sportsman, bard.
Insects that skim in Fashion's sky,
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly,
Lucy, have all alarms for us,
For all can hum and all can buz.

III.

But oh, my Lucy, say how long
We still must dread this trifling throng,
And stoop to hide, with coward art,
The genuine feelings of the heart!
No parents thine, whose just command
Should rule their child's obedient hand;
Thy guardians, with contending voice,
Press each his individual choice.
And which is Lucy's!-Can it be
That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pie,
Who loves in the saloon to show
The arms that never knew a foe;
Whose sabre trails along the ground,
Whose legs in shapeless boots are drown'd
A new Achilles, sure,-the steel
Fled from his breast to fence his heel;
One, for the simple manly grace
That wont to deck our martial race,
Who comes in foreign trashery
Of tinkling chain and spur,
A walking haberdashery,

Of feathers, lace, and fur:
In Rowley's antiquated phrase,
Horse-milliner of modern days.
IV.

Or is it he, the wordy youth,

So early train'd for statesman's part, Who talks of honour, faith, and truth,

As themes that he has got by heart; Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach, Whose logic is from Single-speech; Who scorns the meanest thought to vent, Save in the phrase of parliament; Who, in a tale of cat and mouse, Calls" order," and "divides the house," Who"craves permission to reply," Whose "noble friend is in his eye;" Whose loving tender some have reckon'd A motion, you should gladly second?

Forgive me, love, I cannot bear
That alter'd and resentful air.
Were all the wealth of Russel mine,
And all the rank of Howard's line,
All would I give for leave to dry
That dew-drop trembling in thine eye.
Think not I fear such fops can wile
From Lucy more than careless smile;
But yet if wealth and high degree
Give gilded counters currency,
Must I not fear, when rank and birth
Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth?
Nobles there are, whose martial fires
Rival the fame that raised their sires,
And patriots, skill'd through storms of fate
To guide and guard the reeling state.
Such, such there are-if such should come,
Arthur must tremble and be dumb,
Self-exiled seek some distant shore,
And mourn till life and grief are o'er.

VI.

What sight, what signal of alarm,
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm!
Or is it that the rugged way
Makes beauty lean on lover's stay?
Oh, no! for on the vale and brake,
Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake,
And this trim sward of velvet green
Were carpet for the fairy queen.
That pressure slight was but to tell
That Lucy loves her Arthur well,
And fain would banish from his mind
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind.
VII.

But would'st thou bid the demons fly
Like mist before the dawning sky,
There is but one resistless spell-
Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell?
'Twere hard to name in minstrel phrase,
A landaulet and four blood-bays,
But bards agree this wizard band
Can but be bound in Northern Land.
'Tis there-nay, draw not back thy hand!—
"Tis there this slender finger round
Must golden amulet be bound,
Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer,
Can change to rapture lovers' care,
And doubt and jealousy shall die,
And fears give place to ecstasy.
VIII.

Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long
Has been thy lover's tale and song.
O why so silent, love, I pray?
Have 1 not spoke the livelong day?
And will not Lucy deign to say
. One word her friend to bless?
I ask but one--a simple sound,
Within three little letters bound,
O let the word be YES!

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO III. I. .Lose loved, long woo'd, and lately won, My life's best hope, and now mine own! Doth not this rude and Alpine glen Recal our favourite haunts agen? A wild resemblance we can trace, Though reft of every softer grace, As the rough warrior's brow may bear A likeness to a sister fair.

Full well advised our highland host,
That this wild pass on foot be cross'd,
While round Ben-Cruach's mighty base
Wheel the slow steeds and lingering chaise.
The keen old carle, with Scottish pride,
He praised his glen and mountains wide;
An eye he bears for nature's face,
Ay, and for woman's lovely grace.
Even in such mean degree we find
The subtle Scot's observing mind;
For, not the chariot nor the train
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain,
But when old Allan would expound
Of Beal-na-paish the Celtic sound,
His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied
His legend to my bonny bride;
While Lucy blush'd beneath his eye,
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly.
11.

Enough of him. Now, ere we lose,
Plunged in the vale, the distant views,
Turn thee, my love! look back once more
To the blue lake's retiring shore.
On its smooth breast the shadows seem
Like objects in a morning dream,
What time the slumberer is aware
He sleeps, and all the vision's air:
Even so, on yonder liquid lawn,
In hues of bright reflection drawn,
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie,
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky;
The summer clouds so plain we note,
That we might count each dappled spot:
We gaze and we admire, yet know
The scene is all delusive show.
Such dreams of bliss would Arthur draw,
When first his Lucy's form he saw;
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew,
Despairing they could e'er prove true!

IIL

But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view

Up the fair glen our destined way! The fairy path that we pursue, Distinguish'd but by greener hue,

Winds round the purple brae, While Alpine flowers of varied dye For carpet serve or tapestry. See how the little runnels leap, In threads of silver, down the steep, To swell the brooklet's moan! Seems that the highland Naiad grieves, Fantastic while her crown she weaves, Of rowan, birch, and alder-leaves, So lovely, and so lone.

There's no illusion there, these flowers,
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers,
Are, Lucy, all our own;

And, since thine Arthur call'd thee wife,
Such seems the prospect of his life,
A lovely path, on-winding still,
By gurgling brook and sloping hill.
'Tis true that mortals cannot tell
What waits them in the distant dell;
But be it hap, or be it harm,
We tread the path-way arm in arm.
IV.

And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why
I could thy bidding twice deny,

Beal-na-paish, the Vale of the Bridal,

When twice you pray'd I would again
Resume the legendary strain
Of the bold knight of Triermain?
At length yon peevish vow you swore,
That you would sue to me no more,
Until the minstrel fit drew near,
And made me prize a listening ear.
But, loveliest, when thou first didst pray
Continuance of the knightly lay,
Was it not on the happy day

That made thy hand mine own?
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy,
Nought past, or present, or to be,
Could I or think on, hear, or see,

Save, Lucy, thee alone!

A giddy draught my rapture was,
As ever chemist's magic gas.
V.

Again the summons I denied
In yon fair capital of Clyde;
My harp-or let me rather choose
The good old classic form-my muse,
(For harp 's an over-scutched phrase,
Worn out by bards of modern days,)
My muse, then--seldom will she wake
Save by dim wood and silent lake.
She is the wild and rustic maid,
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread
Where the soft green-sward is inlaid
With varied moss and thyme;
And, lest the simple lily-braid,
That coronets her temples, fade,
She hides her still in greenwood shade,
To meditate her rhyme.

BEWCASTLE now must keep the hold,
Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in stall,
Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold

Must only shoot from battled wall;
And Liddesdale may buckle spur,
And Teviot now may belt the brand,
Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir,
And Eskdale foray Cumberland.
Of wasted field and plundered flocks

The borderers bootless may complain; They lack the sword of brave De Vaux, There comes no aid from Triermain. That lord, on high adventure bound, Hath wandered forth alone,

And day and night keeps watchful round In the valley of St. John.

II.

When first began his vigil bold,

The moon twelve summer nights was old, And shone both fair and full;

High in the vault of cloudless blue,
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw
Her light composed and cool.

Stretched on the brown hill's heathy breast,
Sir Roland eyed the vale;

Chief, where, distinguished from the rest,
Those clustering rocks upreared their crest,
The dwelling of the fair distress'd,
As told gray Lyulph's tale.
Thus as he lay, the lamp of night
Was quivering on his armour bright,
In beams that rose and fell,

And danced upon his buckler's boss,
That lay beside him on the moss,
As on a crystal well.

III.

Ever he watched, and oft he deemed,

While on the mound the moonlight streamed,

It altered to his eyes;

Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change
To buttressed walls their shapeless range,
Fain think, by transmutation strange,

He saw gray turrets rise.

But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd high, Before the wild illusions fly,

Which fancy had conceived,
Abetted by an anxious eye
That longed to be deceived.
It was a fond deception all,
Such as, in solitary hall,

Beguiles the musing eye,
When, gazing on the sinking fire,
Bulwark and battlement and spire

In the red gulf we spy.

For, seen by moon of middle night,
Or by the blaze of noontide bright,
Or by the dawn of morning light,

Or evening's western flame,
In every tide, at every hour,
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower,
The rocks remained the same.

IV.

Oft has he traced the charmed mound,
Oft climbed its crest, or paced it round,
Yet nothing might explore,
Save that the crags so rudely piled,
At distance seen, resemblance wild
To a rough fortress bore.

Yet still his watch the warrior keeps,
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps,

And drinks but of the well;

Ever by day he walks the hill,

And when the evening gale is chill,

He seeks a rocky cell,

Like bermit poor to bid his bead,
And tell his ave and his creed,
Invoking every saint at need,
For aid to burst the spell.

V.

And now the moon her orb has hid,
And dwindled to a silver thread,

Dim seen in middle heaven,
While o'er its curve careering fast,
Before the fury of the blast,

The midnight clouds are driven.

The brooklet raved, for on the hills
The upland showers had swoll'n the rills,
And down the torrents came;
Muttered the distant thunder dread,
And frequent o'er the vale was spread
A sheet of lightning flame.