Imagine (but ye Saints! who can ?)
How in still air the balance trembled—
The wishes, peradventure the despites

That overcame some not ungenerous Knights; And all the thoughts that lengthened out a span Of time to Lords and Ladies thus assembled.

What patient confidence was here!

And there how many bosoms panted!

While drawing toward the car Sir Gawaine, mailed For tournament, his beaver vailed,

And softly touched; but, to his princely cheer And high expectancy, no sign was granted.

Next, disencumbered of his harp,

Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a brother, Came to the proof, nor grieved that there ensued No change; the fair Izonda he had wooed With love too true, a love with pangs too sharp, From hope too distant, not to dread another.

Not so Sir Launcelot ;-from Heaven's grace A sign he craved, tired slave of vain contrition; The royal Guinever looked passing glad When his touch failed.—Next came Sir Galahad; He paused, and stood entranced by that still face Whose features he had seen in noontide vision.

For late, as near a murmuring stream
He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady,
Nina, the good Enchantress, shed

A light around his mossy bed;

And, at her call, a waking dream

Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady.

Now, while his bright-haired front he bowed,

And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred with ermine,
As o'er the insensate Body hung

The enrapt, the beautiful, the young,
Belief sank deep into the crowd

That he the solemn issue would determine.

Nor deem it strange; the Youth had worn
That very mantle on a day of glory,

The day when he achieved that matchless feat,
The marvel of the PERILOUS SEAT,

Which whosoe'er approached of strength was shorn, Though King or Knight the most renowned in story.

He touched with hesitating hand

And lo! those Birds, far-famed through Love's dominions,

The Swans, in triumph clap their wings; And their necks play, involved in rings, Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy land;"Mine is she," cried the Knight;-again they clapped their pinions.

"Mine was she-mine she is, though dead, And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow;" Whereat, a tender twilight streak

Of colour dawned upon the Damsel's cheek; And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, Seemed from each other a faint warmth to borrow.

Deep was the awe, the rapture high,

Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwining, When, to the mouth, relenting Death

Allowed a soft and flower-like breath,
Precursor to a timid sigh,

To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining.

In silence did King Arthur gaze
Upon the signs that pass away or tarry;
In silence watched the gentle strife
Of Nature leading back to life;
Then eased his soul at length by praise

Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen-the blissful Mary.

Then said he, "Take her to thy heart,
Sir Galahad! a treasure, that God giveth,
Bound by indissoluble ties to thee
Through mortal change and immortality;
Be happy and unenvied, thou who art
A goodly Knight that hath no peer that liveth!"

Not long the Nuptials were delayed;

And sage tradition still rehearses

The pomp, the glory of that hour
When toward the altar from her bower
King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid,
And Angels carolled these far-echoed verses ;-

Who shrinks not from alliance
Of evil with good Powers,
To God proclaims defiance,
And mocks whom he adores.

A Ship to Christ devoted
From the Land of Nile did go;
Alas! the bright Ship floated,
An Idol at her prow.

By magic domination,

The Heaven-permitted vent
Of purblind mortal passion,
Was wrought her punishment.

The Flower, the Form within it,
What served they in her need?
Her port she could not win it,
Nor from mishap be freed.

The tempest overcame her,
And she was seen no more;
But gently, gently blame her-
She cast a Pearl ashore.

The Maid to Jesu hearkened,
And kept to him her faith,
Till sense in death was darkened,
Or sleep akin to death.

But Angels round her pillow
Kept watch, a viewless band;
And, billow favouring billow,
She reached the destined strand.

Blest Pair! whate'er befal

you,

Your faith in Him approve
Who from frail earth can call you

To bowers of endless love!

1830.

THE RIVER DUDDON.

A SERIES OF SONNETS.

[Ir is with the little river Duddon as it is with most other rivers, Ganges and Nile not excepted,—many springs might claim the honour of being its head. In my own fancy I have fixed its rise near the noted Shire-stones placed at the meeting-point of the counties, Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire. They stand by the way-side on the top of the Wrynose Pass, and it used to be reckoned a proud thing to say that, by touching them at the same time with feet and hands, one had been in the three counties at once. At what point of its course the stream takes the name of Duddon I do not know. I first became acquainted with the Duddon, as I have good reason to remember, in early boyhood. Upon the banks of the Derwent I had learnt to be very fond of angling. Fish abound in that large river; not so in the small streams in the neighbourhood of Hawkshead; and I fell into the common delusion that the farther from home the better sport would be had. Accordingly, one day I attached myself to a person living in the neighbourhood of Hawkshead, who was going to try his fortune as an angler near the source of the Duddon. We fished a great part of the day with very sorry success, the rain pouring torrents, and long before we got home I was worn out with fatigue; and, if the good man had not carried me on his back, I must have lain down under the best shelter I could find. Little did I think then it would be my lot to celebrate, in a strain of love and admiration, the stream which for many years I never thought of without recollections of disappointment and distress.

During my college vacation, and two or three years afterwards, before taking my Bachelor's degree, I was several times resident in the house of a near relative who lived in the small town of Broughton. I passed many delightful hours upon the banks of this river, which becomes an estuary about a mile from that place. The remembrances of that period are the subject of the 21st Sonnet. The subject of the 27th is in fact taken from