Though ever seen through thorny brakes,
Or wastes of trackless sand,
As Israel from the wilderness
Beheld his promised land.
Long, long, the early Muse hath left
Her own, her Grecian isles;
And long the Runic harp is hushed
Among the Northern wilds;
And o'er the poet's path a flood
Of tinie and tears hath swept;
But still 'tis all of Eden which
Our fallen world hath kept.
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.
"THROW back the barriers !-Marshal-see
That, high above that shout,
Herald and trumpet fearlessly
Ring our defiance out!
Long as this arm can lift a lance
This hand a charger rein,
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.
Supreme o'er all yon Lady's glance,
Where beauty throngs, or pennons dance,
Devoted We maintain !
And knightly spur be hacked from heel,
Reversed his blazon be,
Who, Bright One, in the combat's peal,
Strikes feeble stroke for thee!
Back with the barriers!-undismayed
Fling forth our challenge wide!
God, and one lustrous look to aid,
The battle We abide !"
Such, in the Tourneys noble days,
Had haply been the guise
Of errant Minstrel's duteous praise,
Beneath Her graciouss smile, whose gaze
Before us shadowed lies.-
But, woe for Beauty and for Bard,
Those days are gone-the glory-starred!
For Roland's horn of dreadful tone
We hear the Knightsbridge bugles blown,
And the sole fields of Cloth of Gold
Are by veracious Robins sold.
Nothing through earth or ocean's range
But suffers dull disastrous change,-
Save Woman's radiant looks that beam
As ages back they beamed,
When Sydney wove his starry dream,
And Surrey's falchion gleamed.
O blessed boon!-though vanished long
Those stately times of sword and song!—
Still blooms-though low the shaft is laid-
The loved Acanthus undecayed.—
We drink deep faith from yonder face,
That, though the sterner powers
Of Chivalry are gone-its grace
And gladness still are ours.
THE CAPTIVITY OF FRANCIS I.
WHEN the King, from France departing,
Other lands to conquer sought,
'Twas at Pavia he was taken,
By the wily Spaniard caught.
"Yield thee, yield thee straight, King Francis, Death or prison is thy lot." "Wherefore call you me King Francis?
Such a monarch know I not."
Then the Spaniard raised his mantle,
And beheld the Fleur de lys;
Then they chain him, and, full joyous,
Bear him to captivity.
WINTER AND THE FLOWERS.
In a tower where moon nor sunlight
Came but by a window small,
There he lay, and, as he gazes,
Sees a courier pass the wall.
"Courier, who art letters bringing,
Tell me what in France is said."
"Ah! my news is sad and heavy,
For the King is ta'en or dead!"
"Back with speed, oh courier, hasten,―
Haste to Paris back with speed:
To my wife and little children,
Bid them help me at my need;
"Bid them coin new gold and silver,
All that Paris has to bring;
And send here a heap of treasure,
To redeem the captive King."
OLD Winter loveth not the flowers, for they
Do mind him, with their meek and innocent
How soon his sceptre must be laid aside.
Awhile since came the snowdrop preaching thus;
Him Winter heard, and hearing, inly vowed,
That he would wreak upon those rebel hosts
Sudden and sharp revenge; so, putting on
The aspect of mild Spring, he bade the winds
Blow softly, and the unclouded sun look down
With warmer radiance on the quickening earth:
This did he many a day, till, one by one,
Came forth the bursting flowers, and 'gan to ope
Their fairy blossoms, and their perfumes pour
Upon the pinions of the treacherous breeze.
Then laughed Winter, with a scornful laugh,—
And stripping off the mask, with killing eyes
He looked around; his helpless victims shrank
Beneath that cruel gaze, and on their stems
Hung, droopingly and pale; then shouted he
To his pitiless jailor, Frost, to bind his realm,
Meadow, and garden, each green pastoral spot,
And woodland nook, and dell, and river bank,
In chains of adamant: next morn the flowers
Lay on the icy earth, withered and dead,
But the sweet sky, as if in gentle ruth
For such fell ravage, veiled the sun with clouds, And spread, with weeping face, above their graves,
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