And-for his power to hurt or kill Evanish'd in the storm. XVII. He placed her on a bank of moss, And tremors yet unknown across His stubborn sinews fly, The while with timid hand the dew Upon her brow and neck he threw, And mark'd how life with rosy hue On her pale cheek revived anew, And glimmer'd in her eye. Inly he said, 'That silken tress What blindness mine that could not guess! Or how could page's rugged dress That bosom's pride belie? O, dull of heart, through wild and wave In search of blood and death to rave, With such a partner nigh!' XVIII. Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd, Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, The stains of recent conflict clear'd, And thus the Champion proved, That he fears now who never fear'd, And loves who never loved. And Eivir-life is on her cheek, And yet she will not move or speak, Nor will her eyelid fully ope; Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye, Through its long fringe, reserved and shy, Affection's opening dawn to spy; And the deep blush, which bids its dye O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly, Speaks shame-facedness and hope. XIX. But vainly seems the Dane to seek Till now were strangers to his tongue; Heard none more soft, were all as true): That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed. CONCLUSION. AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid? And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow? No need to turn the page, as if 'twere lead, Or fling aside the volume till to morrow. Be cheer'd; 'tis ended-and I will not borrow, To try thy patience more, one anecdote From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath wrote A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add a note. END OF HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. The Bridal of Triermain. INTRODUCTION. I. COME, Lucy! while 'tis morning hour pass; So, ere the sun assume his power, grass. Curbing the stream, this stony ridge For here, compell'd to disunite, And chafing off their puny spite, Yielding to footstep free and light II. Nay, why this hesitating pause? Titania's foot without a slip, IV. From stone to stone might safely trip, Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip That binds her slipper's silken rim. Or trust thy lover's strength; nor fear That this same stalwart arm of mine, And why does Lucy shun mine eye? How deep that blush-how deep that sigh! Is it because that crimson draws Than the dull glance of common men, And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met The hues of pleasure and regret; Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow; Well pleased that thou art Arthur's choice, Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part, A lyre, a falchion, and a heart? VI. Mysword-its master must be dumb; My heart! 'mid all yon courtly crew, Yet shamed thine own is placed They praised thy diamonds' lustre And faintly gleam'd cach painted pane Of the lordly halls of Triermain, When that Baron bold awoke. Starting he woke, and loudly did call, Rousing his menials in bower and hall, While hastily he spoke. IV. 'Hearken,my minstrels! which of ye all Touch'd his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call To an expiring saint? And hearken, my merry-men! what time or where Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, And her graceful step and her angelair, And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair, That pass'd from my bower e'en now?' V. Answer'd him Richard de Bretvillehe Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy: 'Silent, noble chieftain, we Have sat since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings Murmur'd from our melting strings, And hush'd you to repose. Had a harp-note sounded here It had caught my watchful ear, Although it fell as faint and shy As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh, When she thinks her lover near.' Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tallHe kept guard in the outer hall: 'Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal cross'd; Else had I heard the steps, though low And light they fell, as when earth receives, In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves That drop when no winds blow.' Through devouring flame and smothering smoke, Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. The trustiest thou of all my train, My fleetest courser thou must rein, And ride to Lyulph's tower, And from the Baron of Triermain Greet well that sage of power. Or fading tints of western skies. VII. The faithful Page he mounts his steed, And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead, Dash'do'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, And Eden barr'd his course in vain. |