THE WHITE HORSE OF WHARFDALE.
O SISTERS, hasten we on our way,
The Wharf is wide and strong!
Our father alone in his hall will say,
'My daughters linger long.'
Yet, tarry awhile in the yellow moonlight,
And each shall see her own true knight,
For now in her boat of an acorn-shell
The fairy queen may be,
She dives in a water-spider's bell
To keep her revelry:
We'll drop a thistle's beard in the tide
"Twill serve for bridles when fairies ride;
And she who shall first her White Horse see
Shall be the heiress of Bethmeslie.'
Then Jeannette spoke with her eyes of light-
O if I had fairy power,
I would change this elm to a gallant knight,
And this grey rock to a bower:
Our dwelling should be behind a screen
Of blossoming alders and laurustine;
Our hives should tempt the wild bees all,
And the swallows love our eaves,
For the eglantine should tuft our wall,
And cover their nests with leaves:
The spindle's wool should lie unspun,
And our lambs lie safe in the summer-sun,
While the merrry bells ring for my knight and me,
Farewell to the halls of Bethmeslie !'
Then Annot shook her golden hair
If I had power and will,
These rocks should change to marble rare,
And the oaks should leave the hill,
To build a dome of prouder height
Than ever yet rose in the morning light;
And every one of these slender reeds
Should be a page in green,
To lead and deck my berry-brown steeds,
And call my greyhounds in ;
These lillies all should be ladies gay,
To weave the pearls for my silk array,
And none but a princely knight should see
Smiles in the lady of Bethmeslie.'
Then softly said their sister May-
'I would ask neither spell nor wand;
For better I prize this white rose-spray
Plucked by my father's hand:
And little I heed the knight to see
Who seeks the heiress of Bethmeslie!
Yet would I give one of these roses white
If the fairy queen would ride
Safe o'er this flood ere the dead of night,
And bear us by her side.
And then with her wing let her lift the latch
Of my father's gate, and his slumbers watch,
And touch his eyes with her glow-worm-gleams
Till he sees and blesses us in his dreams.'
The night-winds howled o'er Bolton Strid,
The flood was dark and drear,
But through it swam the Fairy-queen's steed
The lady May to bear;
And that milk-white steed was seen to skim
Like a flash of the moon on the water's brim.
The morning came, and the winds were tame,
The flood slept on the shore;
But the sisters three of Bethmeslie
Returned to its hall no more.
* Coleridge and Rogers have made this Strid famous, and the White Horse is still expected to rise on the Wharf near it, when travellers are drowning.
Now under the shade of its ruined wall
A thorn grows lonely, bare, and tall.
And there is a weak and weeping weed
Seems on its rugged stem to feed:
The shepherds sit in the green recess,
And call them Pride and Idleness,
But there is the root of a white rose-tree
Still blooms at the gate of Bethmeslie.
Woe to the maid that on morn of May
Shall see that White Horse rise!
The hope of her heart shall pass away
As the foam of his nostril flies,
Unless to her father's knee she brings
The white rose-tree's first offerings.-
There is no dew from summer-skies
Has power like the drop from a father's eyes;
And if on her cheek that tear of bliss
Shall mingle with his holy kiss,
The bloom of her cheek shall blessed be
As the Fairy's rose of Bethmeslie.
European Magazine.
ORNAMENTED WITH A BUST OF THOMSON.
To teach old Time an equal pace,
Should be the Artist's care;
But every Season speeds his race,
If Thomson's Lyre is there!
Fond workman!-Humbler minstrelsy
Might regulate thy chime;
The bard of immortality
Need take no note of Time.
TO A FRIEND ON THE LOSS OF HIS CHILD.
Not every bud that grows
Shall bloom into a flower:
Not every hope that glows
Shall have its prospering hour :
A blight the bud may sever,
The hope be quenched for ever.
In every joy there lurks
An impulse of decay:
With silent speed it works,
While all without is gay;
Ere yet we dream of ruin,
The breach is past renewing.
Yet, like the bending bough
From some dead weight released,
The spirits bound, we know not how,
When woe's first press hath ceased;
But this may ne'er be spoken
Of heart or bough that's broken.
There is a pulse in man
That will not throb to grief;
Let woe do all it can,
That pulse will bring relief:
We feel, though self-accusing,
That pulse its balm diffusing.
Since human hopes are vain,
And joy remaineth not,
"Tis well that human pain
When dealt, is thus forgot.
The smile shall leave no traces:
The tear itself effaces.
Then, if apart from all
Thou sheddest still the tear,
Too early doomed to fall
Warm on thine infant's bier,
War not with nature's sorrow,
For peace will come to-morrow.
Or should reviving peace
E'en now be kindly given,
Oh! suffer woe to cease,
And thank indulgent heaven,
That breathes the breath of healing
On wounds of deepest feeling,
WHAT Spirit fills this holy place?
Is it Religion's mystic torch
That sheds a more than mortal grace
On fractured arch and ruined porch?
Beneath this sky-like dome hath prayed
The heroes of the stormy ages;
And here their noble dust is laid,
Commingled with the saint's and sage's.
Untold thy strongest charm remains
A Poet found thy secret powers,
Rebuilt thee by his heavenly strains,
And wrapt in glory all thy towers.
Now see we but what he hath told:
His Spirit fills this mighty shrine: Restores the lost, renews the old :His immortality is thine.
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