That shines aloft, while through the wood
She thrids her way, the sounding Flood
Her melancholy lure!

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,

In white arrayed, glides on the Maid
The downward pathway taking,
That leads her to the torrent's side

And to a holly bower;

By whom on this still night descried?
By whom in that lone place espied?
By thee, Sir Eglamore !1

A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight,
His coming step has thwarted,
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted.
Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see!
Perplexed her fingers seem,
As if they from the holly tree
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly

Flung from her to the stream.

What means the Spectre? Why intent
To violate the Tree,

Thought Eglamore, by which I swore

Unfading constancy?

Here am I, and to-morrow's sun,
To her I left, shall prove

That bliss is ne'er so surely won

As when a circuit has been run

Of valour, truth, and love.

1

The knight, Sir Eglamore.

MS.

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

So from the spot whereon he stood,
He moved with stealthy pace;

And, drawing nigh, with his living eye,1
He recognised the face;

And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some muttered to the torrent-fall ;-
"Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may He!"

Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew
If Emma's Ghost2 it were,
Or boding Shade, or if the Maid
Her very self stood there.

He touched; what followed who shall tell?
The soft touch snapped the thread

Of slumber-shrieking back she fell,

And the Stream whirled her down the dell
Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the Knight !—when on firm ground3

The rescued Maiden lay,

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,

Confusion passed away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace

Her faithful Spirit flew,

His voice-beheld his speaking face;

And, dying, from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.

3

In plunged the Knight-he strove in vain.
Brief words may speak the rest;

Within, &c.

MS.

387

*

Within the dell he built a cell,
And there was Sorrow's guest;
In hermits' weeds repose he found,
From vain temptations1 free;
Beside the torrent dwelling-bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,

Nor fear memorial lays,

Where clouds that spread in solemn shade,
Are edged with golden rays!

Dear art thou to the light of heaven,
Though minister of sorrow;
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even;

And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven,

Shalt take thy place with Yarrow !

This poem was translated into Latin verse by the poet's son, and published in the second edition of Yarrow revisited, and other poems, 1835.-ED.

XLVII.

TO CORDELIA M——‚†

HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER.

NoT in the mines beyond the western main,

You say, Cordelia,2 was the metal sought,

Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought

Into this flexible yet faithful Chain;

Compare the Ode to Duty (Vol. III., p. 31)

"From vain temptations dost set free."

+ Cordelia Marshall.-ED.

MS.

1835.

-ED.

MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UNUPLIFTED EYES. 389

Nor is it silver of romantic Spain

But from our loved1 Helvellyn's depths was brought,
Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought
Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain,
Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being:
Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord,
What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing,
Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord,
For precious tremblings in your bosom found!

XLVIII.

MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.2

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

Pleased rather with that soothing after-tone
Whose seat is in the mind, occasion's Queen!
Else Nature's noblest objects were I ween
A yoke endured, a penance undergone.

1835.

MS.

1834.

The Poems of 1834 include four of the Evening Voluntaries—the poet was 54 years of age-The Labourer's Noonday Hymn, the Stanzas to The Redbreast, and some Lines suggested by portraits and written in albums.

[The lines following "nor do words" were written with Lord Byron's character, as a poet, before me, and that of others, his contemporaries, who wrote under like influences.]

NOT in the lucid intervals of life

That come but as a curse to party strife;
Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh
Of languor puts his rosy garland by;
Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave
Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave—
Is Nature felt, or can be; nor do words,
Which practised talent* readily affords,

Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords;
Nor has her gentle beauty power to move
With genuine rapture and with fervent love
The soul of Genius, if he dare1 to take
Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake;
Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent
Of all the truly great and all the innocent.

But who is innocent? By grace divine,

Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine,
Through good and evil thine, in just degree
Of rational and manly sympathy.