A song in mockery and despite Of shades, and dews, and silent night, And steady bliss, and all the loves Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day, His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze; He did not cease, but cooed-and cooed; And somewhat pensively he wooed : He sang of love with quiet blending; Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith and inward glee; That was the song-the song for me!
THREE years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown : This child I to myself will take: She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.
Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
She shall be sportive as the fawn, That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.
The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
E'en in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height.
Her virgin bosom swell
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.'
Thus Nature spake. The work was done
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees,
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course With rocks and stones and trees!
THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.
WHEN the brothers reached the gateway, Eustace pointed with his lance
To the horn which there was hanging; Horn of the inheritance.
Horn it was which none could sound, No one upon living ground,
Save he who came as rightful heir To Egremont's domains and castle fair.
Heirs from ages without record Had the House of Lucie born, Who of right had claimed the lordship By the proof upon the horn:
Each at the appointed hour
Tried the horn,-it owned his power; He was acknowledged: and the blast, Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last.
With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, And to Hubert thus said he: "What I speak this horn shall witness For thy better memory.
Hear, then, and neglect me not! At this time, and on this spot,
The words are uttered from my heart, As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.
On good service we are going Life to risk by sea and land;
In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,
Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day;
Return, and sound the horn, that we
May have a living house still left in thee!"
Fear not," quickly answered Hubert; "As I am thy father's son,
What thou askest, noble brother, With God's favour shall be done." So were both right well content: From the castle forth they went; And at the head of their array
To Palestine the brothers took their way.
Side by side they fought (the Lucies Were a line for valour famed), And where'er their strokes alighted, There the Saracens were tamed.
Whence, then, could it come, the thought By what evil spirit brought?
Oh! can a brave man wish to take
His brother's life, for land's and castle's sake}
'Sir," the ruffians said to Hubert, "Deep he lies in Jordan flood." Stricken by this ill assurance, Pale and trembling Hubert stood. "Take your earnings. Oh! that I Could have seen my brother die!" It was a pang that vexed him then! And oft returned-again, and yet again.
Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace Nor of him were tidings heard. Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer Back again to England steered. To his castle Hubert sped;
He has nothing now to dread. But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.
None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee: Months and years went smilingly; With plenty was his table spread;
And bright the lady is who shares his bed.
Likewise he had sons and daughters; And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And, while thus in open day,
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the horn,
Where, by the castle gate, it hung forlorn.
'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace! He is come to claim his right: Ancient castle, woods, and mountains Hear the challenge with delight. Hubert! though the blast be blown, He is helpless and alone:
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord.
Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot; And if power to speak he had, All are daunted, all the household, Smitten to the heart and sad, 'Tis Sir Eustace: if it be Living man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, And by a postern gate he slunk away.
Long, and long was he unheard of: To his brother then he came, Made confession, asked forgiveness, Asked it by a brother's name, And by all the saints in heaven; And of Eustace was forgiven: Then in a convent went to hide His melancholy head, and there he died.
But Sir Eustace, whom good angels Had preserved from murderers' hands. And from pagan chains had rescued, Lived with honour on his lands. Sons he had, saw sons of theirs: And through ages, heirs of heirs, A long posterity renowned,
Sounded the horn which they alone could sound.
GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.
OH! what's the matter-what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still! Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he?
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