And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where

Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow,

With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair,

And her graceful step and her angel air, And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair,

That passed from my bower e'en now!'

V.

Answered him Richard de Bretville; he
Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy, -
'Silent, noble chieftain, we

Have sat since midnight close,

When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings

Murmured from our melting strings,

And hushed you to repose.
Had a harp-note sounded here,
It had caught my watchful ear,
Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-formed sigh
When she thinks her lover near.'
Answered Philip of Fasthwaite tall;
He kept guard in the outer-hall,
'Since at eve our watch took post,
Not a foot has thy portal crossed;

Else had I heard the steps, though low And light they fell as when earth receives In morn of frost the withered leaves

That drop when no winds blow.'

VI.

'Then come thou hither, Henry, my page, Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, When that dark castle, tower, and spire, Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And reddened all the Nine-stane Hill, And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering smoke,

Made the warrior's heart-blood chill.
The trustiest thou of all my train,
My fleetest courser thou must rein,
And ride to Lyulph's tower,
And from the Baron of Triermain
Greet well that sage of power.
He is sprung from Druid sires

And British bards that tuned their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.
Gifted like his gifted race,
He the characters can trace
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs sublime;
Sign and sigil well doth he know,
And can bode of weal and woe,

Onward he rode, the pathway still
Winding betwixt the lake and hill;
Till, on the fragment of a rock
Struck from its base by lightning shock,
He saw the hoary sage:

The silver moss and lichen twined,

With fern and deer-hair checked and lined,

A cushion fit for age;

And o'er him shook the aspen-tree,
A restless rustling canopy.

Then sprung young Henry from his selle
And greeted Lyulph grave,

And then his master's tale did tell,
And then for counsel crave.
The man of years mused long and deep,
Of time's lost treasures taking keep,
And then, as rousing from a sleep,
His solemn answer gave.

IX.

'That maid is born of middle earth
And may of man be won,
Though there have glided since her birth
Five hundred years and one.

But where's the knight in all the north
That dare the adventure follow forth,
So perilous to knightly worth,

In the valley of Saint John?
Listen, youth, to what I tell,
And bind it on thy memory well;

Nor muse that I commence the rhyme
Far distant mid the wrecks of time.

'O, rather he chose, that monarch bold, On venturous quest to ride

In plate and mail by wood and wold Than, with ermine trapped and cloth of gold,

In princely bower to bide;

The bursting crash of a foeman's spear,
As it shivered against his mail,

Was merrier music to his ear

Than courtier's whispered tale:
And the clash of Caliburn more dear,
When on the hostile casque it rung,
Than all the lays

To the monarch's praise
That the harpers of Reged sung.
He loved better to rest by wood or river

Than in bower of his bride, Dame Guenever,

For he left that lady so lovely of cheer
To follow adventures of danger and fear;
And the frank-hearted monarch full little
did wot

That she smiled in his absence on brave
Lancelot.

XII.

'He rode till over down and dell

The shade more broad and deeper fell; And though around the mountain's head Flowed streams of purple and gold and red,

Dark at the base, unblest by beam, Frowned the black rocks and roared the stream.

With toil the king his way pursued
By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood,
Till on his course obliquely shone
The narrow valley of SAINT JOHN,
Down sloping to the western sky
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.
Right glad to feel those beams again,
The king drew up his charger's rein;
With gauntlet raised he screened his sight,
As dazzled with the level light,
And from beneath his glove of mail
Scanned at his ease the lovely vale,
While 'gainst the sun his armor bright
Gleamed ruddy like the beacon's light.

XIII.

'Paled in by many a lofty hill,
The narrow dale lay smooth and still,
And, down its verdant bosom led,
A winding brooklet found its bed.
But midmost of the vale a mound
Arose with airy turrets crowned,
Buttress, and rampire's circling bound,

And mighty keep and tower; Seemed some primeval giant's hand The castle's massive walls had planned, A ponderous bulwark to withstand Ambitious Nimrod's power. Above the moated entrance slung, The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, As jealous of a foe;

Wicket of oak, as iron hard,

With iron studded, clenched, and barred, And pronged portcullis, joined to guard

The gloomy pass below.

But the gray walls no banners crowned,
Upon the watchtower's airy round
No warder stood his horn to sound,
No guard beside the bridge was found,
And where the Gothic gateway frowned
Glanced neither bill nor bow.

XIV.

'Beneath the castle's gloomy pride,
In ample round did Arthur ride
Three times; nor living thing he spied,
Nor heard a living sound,

Save that, awakening from her dream,
The owlet now began to scream
In concert with the rushing stream

That washed the battled mound.
He lighted from his goodly steed,
And he left him to graze on bank and mead;
And slowly he climbed the narrow way
That reached the entrance grim and gray,
And he stood the outward arch below,
And his bugle-horn prepared to blow

In summons blithe and bold, Deeming to rouse from iron sleep The guardian of this dismal keep,

Which well he guessed the hold Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, Or pagan of gigantic limb,

The tyrant of the wold.

XV.

'The ivory bugle's golden tip Twice touched the monarch's manly lip, And twice his hand withdrew. Think not but Arthur's heart was good! His shield was crossed by the blessed rood:

Had a pagan host before him stood,

He had charged them through and through;

Yet the silence of that ancient place
Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space
Ere yet his horn he blew.
But, instant as its larum rung,
The castle gate was open flung,
Portcullis rose with crashing groan
Full harshly up its groove of stone;

The balance-beams obeyed the blast,
And down the trembling drawbridge cast;
The vaulted arch before him lay
With naught to bar the gloomy way,
And onward Arthur paced with hand
On Caliburn's resistless brand.

XVI.

'A hundred torches flashing bright
Dispelled at once the gloomy night
That loured along the walls,

And showed the king's astonished sight
The inmates of the halls.
Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim,
Nor giant huge of form and limb,

Nor heathen knight, was there;
But the cressets which odors flung aloft
Showed by their yellow light and soft
A band of damsels fair.

Onward they came, like summer wave
That dances to the shore;
An hundred voices welcome gave,
And welcome o'er and o'er!
An hundred lovely hands assail
The bucklers of the monarch's mail,
And busy labored to unhasp
Rivet of steel and iron clasp.
One wrapped him in a mantle fair,
And one flung odors on his hair;

His short curled ringlets one smoothed down,

One wreathed them with a myrtle crown.
A bride upon her wedding-day

Was tended ne'er by troop so gay.

XVII.

'Loud laughed they all, the king in vain With questions tasked the giddy train; Let him entreat or crave or call,

'T was one reply - loud laughed they all.
Then o'er him mimic chains they fling
Framed of the fairest flowers of spring;
While some their gentle force unite
Onward to drag the wondering knight,
Some bolder urge his pace with blows,
Dealt with the lily or the rose.

Behind him were in triumph borne
The warlike arms he late had worn.
Four of the train combined to rear
The terrors of Tintadgel's spear;
Two, laughing at their lack of strength,
Dragged Caliburn in cumbrous length;
One, while she aped a martial stride,
Placed on her brows the helmet's pride;
Then screamed 'twixt laughter and surprise
To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes.
With revel-shout and triumph-song
Thus gayly marched the giddy throng.

XVIII.

'Through many a gallery and hall
They led, I ween, their royal thrall;
At length, beneath a fair arcade
Their march and song at once they staid.
The eldest maiden of the band

The lovely maid was scarce eighteen Raised with imposing air her hand, And reverent silence did command

On entrance of their Queen, And they were mute. But as a glance They steal on Arthur's countenance

Bewildered with surprise,

Their smothered mirth again 'gan speak
In archly dimpled chin and cheek
And laughter-lighted eyes.

XIX.

'The attributes of those high days
Now only live in minstrel-lays;
For Nature, now exhausted, still
Was then profuse of good and ill.
Strength was gigantic, valor high,
And wisdom soared beyond the sky,
And beauty had such matchless beam
As lights not now a lover's dream.
Yet e'en in that romantic age

Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen
As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage,
When forth on that enchanted stage
With glittering train of maid and page
Advanced the castle's queen!
While up the hall she slowly passed,
Her dark eye on the king she cast

That flashed expression strong; The longer dwelt that lingering look, Her cheek the livelier color took,

And scarce the shame-faced king could brook

The gaze that lasted long.

A sage who had that look espied,

Where kindling passion strove with pride,

Had whispered, "Prince, beware!
From the chafed tiger rend the prey,
Rush on the lion when at bay,
Bar the fell dragon's blighted way,
But shun that lovely snare!"

XX.

At once, that inward strife suppressed, The dame approached her warlike guest, With greeting in that fair degree Where female pride and courtesy Are blended with such passing art As awes at once and charms the heart. A courtly welcome first she gave, Then of his goodness 'gan to crave Construction fair and true Of her light maidens' idle mirth,

Who drew from lonely glens their birth Nor knew to pay to stranger worth

And dignity their due;

And then she prayed that he would rest
That night her castle's honored guest.
The monarch meetly thanks expressed;
The banquet rose at her behest,
With lay and tale, and laugh and jest,
Apace the evening flew.

XXI.

'The lady sate the monarch by,
Now in her turn abashed and shy,
And with indifference seemed to hear
The toys he whispered in her ear.
Her bearing modest was and fair,
Yet shadows of constraint were there
That showed an over-cautious care
Some inward thought to hide;
Oft did she pause in full reply,
And oft cast down her large dark eye,
Oft checked the soft voluptuous sigh
That heaved her bosom's pride.
Slight symptoms these, but shepherds
know

How hot the mid-day sun shall glow

From the mist of morning sky;

And so the wily monarch guessed
That this assumed restraint expressed
More ardent passions in the breast

Than ventured to the eye.

Closer he pressed while beakers rang,
While maidens laughed and minstrels sang,
Still closer to her ear

But why pursue the common tale?
Or wherefore show how knights prevail
When ladies dare to hear?

Or wherefore trace from what slight cause
Its source one tyrant passion draws,

Till, mastering all within,

Where lives the man that has not tried
How mirth can into folly glide
And folly into sin!'

The Bridal of Triermain.

CANTO SECOND.

Lyulph's Tale Continued.

I.

'ANOTHER day, another day,
And yet another, glides away!
The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane,
Maraud on Britain's shores again.
Arthur, of Christendom the flower,
Lies loitering in a lady's bower;

The horn that foemen wont to fear
Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer,
And Caliburn, the British pride,
Hangs useless by a lover's side.

II.

'Another day, another day,
And yet another, glides away.
Heroic plans in pleasure drowned,
He thinks not of the Table Round;
In lawless love dissolved his life,
He thinks not of his beauteous wife:
Better he loves to snatch a flower
From bosom of his paramour
Than from a Saxon knight to wrest
The honors of his heathen crest;
Better to wreathe mid tresses brown
The heron's plume her hawk struck down
Than o'er the altar give to flow
The banners of a Paynim foe.

Thus week by week and day by day
His life inglorious glides away;

But she that soothes his dream with fear
Beholds his hour of waking near.

III.

'Much force have mortal charms to stay
Our pace in Virtue's toilsome way;
But Guendolen's might far outshine
Each maid of merely mortal line.
Her mother was of human birth,
Her sire a Genie of the earth,
In days of old deemed to preside
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride,
By youths and virgins worshipped long
With festive dance and choral song,
Till, when the cross to Britain came,
On heathen altars died the flame.
Now, deep in Wastdale solitude,
The downfall of his rights he rued,
And born of his resentment heir,
He trained to guile that lady fair,
To sink in slothful sin and shame
The champions of the Christian name.
Well skilled to keep vain thoughts alive,
And all to promise, naught to give,
The timid youth had hope in store,
The bold and pressing gained no more.
As wildered children leave their home
After the rainbow's arch to roam,
Her lovers bartered fair esteem,
Faith, fame, and honor, for a dream.

Too late must Guendolen deplore,
He that has all can hope no more!
Now must she see her lover strain
At every turn her feeble chain,
Watch to new-bind each knot and shrink
To view each fast-decaying link.
Art she invokes to Nature's aid,
Her vest to zone, her locks to braid;
Each varied pleasure heard her call,
The feast, the tourney, and the ball:
Her storied lore she next applies,
Taxing her mind to aid her eyes;
Now more than mortal wise and then
In female softness sunk again;
Now raptured with each wish complying,
With feigned reluctance now denying;
Each charm she varied to retain

A varying heart — and all in vain!

V.

Thus in the garden's narrow bound
Flanked by some castle's Gothic round,
Fain would the artist's skill provide
The limits of his realms to hide.
The walks in labyrinths he twines,
Shade after shade with skill combines
With many a varied flowery knot
And copse and arbor decks the spot,
Tempting the hasty foot to stay
And linger on the lovely way

Vain art! vain hope! 't is fruitless all!
At length we reach the bounding wall,
And, sick of flower and trim-dressed tree,
Long for rough glades and forest free.

VI.

'Three summer months had scantly flown
When Arthur in embarrassed tone
Spoke of his liegemen and his throne;
Said all too long had been his stay,
And duties which a monarch sway,
Duties unknown to humbler men,
Must tear her knight from Guendolen.
She listened silently the while,
Her mood expressed in bitter smile
Beneath her eye must Arthur quail
And oft resume the unfinished tale,
Confessing by his downcast eye
The wrong he sought to justify.

He ceased. A moment mute she gazed,
And then her looks to heaven she raised;
One palm her temples veiled to hide
The tear that sprung in spite of pride;
The other for an instant pressed
The foldings of her silken vest!

VII.

At her reproachful sign and look, The hint the monarch's conscience took.