THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. I. INTRODUCTION. COME, LUCY! while 'tis morning hour, The woodland brook we needs must pass; So, ere the sun assume his power, We shelter in our poplar bower, Where dew lies long upon the flower, Though vanish'd from the velvet grass. Curbing the stream, this stony ridge May serve us for a silvan bridge; For here, compell'd to disunite, Round petty isles the runnels glide, Yielding to footstep free and light II. Nay, why this hesitating pause? Titania's foot without a slip, That this same stalwart arm of mine, Which could yon oak's prone trunk up rear, Shall shrink beneath the burden dear Of form so slender, light, and fine.So, now, the danger dared at last, Look back, and smile at perils past! III. And now we reach the favourite glade, Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone, Where never harsher sounds invade, To break affection's whispering tone, Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat; Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, A place where lovers best may meet Who would not that their love be seen. The boughs, that dim the summer sky, Shall hide us from each lurking spy, That fain would spread the invidious How Lucy of the lofty eye, IV. How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh! And why does Lucy shun mine eye? Than the dull glance of common men, Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow; Well pleased that thou art Arthur s choice, Yet shamed thine own is placed so low: Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek, As if to meet the breeze's cooling; Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, For Love, too, has his hours of schooling. V. Too oft my anxious eye has spied The load-star of each heart and eye, The heart thy worth and beauty won, To meet a rival on a throne: VI. My sword-its master must be dumb; But, when a soldier names my name, That boasts a pulse so warm as They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare- They praised the pearls that bound thy hair I only saw the locks they braided; They talk'd of wealthy dower and land, And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll, Who rate the dower above the soul, VII. My lyre-it is an idle toy, That borrows accents not its own, That sings but in a mimic tone." CLEUCH! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, VIII. But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell For Lucy loves,-like COLLINS, ill-starr'd name! * The Mocking Bird. THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. CANTO FIRST. I. WHERE is the Maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Triermain? She must be lovely, and constant, and kind, Holy and pure, and humble of mind, Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood, Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood Lovely as the sun's first ray, When it breaks the clouds of an Aprilday; Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is |