THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. He loved, he hoped, a holy flame "Such bounty is no gift of chance," To me the charge hath given. But, when the Lady Catherine pleads, Leave open to my wish the course, And I to her will go; From that humane and heavenly source, Good, only good, can flow." Faint sanction given, the Cavalier Was eager to depart Though question followed question, dear To the Maiden's filial heart.1 Light was his step,-his hopes, more light, 2 And the fifth morning gave him sight Of Moscow's glittering spires. 241 He sued:-heart-smitten by the wrong, The Emperor sent a pledge as strong O more than mighty change! If e'er And joy's excess 1 produced a fear 'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned Beheld their only Child returned, The household floor to tread. Soon gratitude gave way to love In bridal garments drest. The Czar bestowed a dower; And universal Moscow shared The triumph of that hour. Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial feast Was held with costly state; And there, 'mid many a noble guest, The Foster-parents sate; Encouraged by the imperial eye, They shrank not into shade; Great was their bliss, the honour high And over-joy 1835. For the names and persons in the following poem, see the "History of the renowned Prince Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table;" for the rest the Author is answerable; only it may be proper to add that the Lotus, with the bust of the Goddess appearing to rise out of the full-blown flower, was suggested by the beautiful work of ancient art, once included among the Townley Marbles, and now in the British Museum. [In addition to the short notice prefixed to this poem, it may be worth while here to say, that it rose out of a few words casually used in conversation by my nephew, Henry Hutchinson. He was describing with great spirit the appearance and movement of a vessel which he seemed to admire more than any other he had ever seen, and said her name was the Water Lily. This plant has been my delight from my boyhood, as I have seen it floating on the lake; and that conversation put me upon constructing and composing the poem. Had I not heard those words, it would never have been written. The form of the stanza is new, and is nothing but a repetition of the first five lines as they were thrown off, and is not perhaps well suited to narrative, and certainly would not have been trusted to had I thought at the beginning that the poem would have gone to such a length.] WHILE Merlin paced the Cornish sands, Of a bright Ship, that seemed to hang in air, And took from men her name-THE WATER LILY. Soft was the wind, that landward blew ; And, as the Moon, o'er some dark hill ascendant, To a full orb, this Pinnace bright Became, as nearer to the coast she drew, More glorious, with spread sail and streaming pendant. Upon this winged Shape so fair Sage Merlin gazed with admiration: Aught that was ever shown in magic glass; Or, at a touch, produced by happiest transformation.1 Now, though a Mechanist, whose skill Shames the degenerate grasp of modern science, For practising occult and perilous lore) Was subject to a freakish will That sapped good thoughts, or scared them with defiance. Provoked to envious spleen, he cast An altered look upon the advancing Stranger And the waves rose, and sky portended danger. With thrilling word, and potent sign Traced on the beach, his work the Sorcerer urges; The clouds in blacker clouds are lost, Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, crossed By Fiends of aspect more malign; And the winds roused the Deep with fiercer scourges. But worthy of the name she bore Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant Galley; Supreme in loveliness and grace Of motion, whether in the embrace Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er The main flood roughened into hill and valley. Or, at a touch, set forth with wondrous transformation. 1835. THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 245 Behold, how wantonly she laves Her sides, the Wizard's craft confounding; Like something out of Ocean sprung To be for ever fresh and young, Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves But Ocean under magic heaves, And cannot spare the Thing he cherished: The storm has stripped her of her leaves; Grieve for her, she deserves no less; Though loved, she could not love again; Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of Nature. Yet is there cause for gushing tears, A fairer than herself she bore, A lovely One, who nothing hears Of wind or wave-a meek and guileless Maiden. Into a cave had Merlin fled From mischief, caused by spells himself had muttered; And while, repentant all too late, In moody posture there he sate, He heard a voice, and saw, with half-raised head, A Visitant by whom these words were uttered; |