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Across the road a fiery glare

Doth blacksmith's open forge declare,
Where furnace blast, and measured din
Of hammers twain, and all within,-
The brawny mates their labour plying,
From heated bar the red sparks flying,
And idle neighbours standing by
With open mouth and dazzled eye,
The rough and sooty walls with store
Of chains and horseshoes studded o'er,-
An armory of sullied sheen,-

All momently are heard and seen.
Nor does he often fail to meet,
In market town's dark narrow street
(E'en when the night on pitchy wings
The sober hour of bed-time brings,)
Amusement. From the alehouse door,
Having full bravely paid his score,
Issues the tipsy artizan,
With tipsier brother of the can,
And oft to wile him homeward tries
With coaxing words, so wondrous wise!
The dame demure, from visit late,
Her lantern borne before in state

By sloven footboy, paces slow,

With patten'd feet and hooded brow.
Where the seam'd window-board betrays
Interior light, full closely lays
The eavesdropper his curious ear,
Some neighbour's fireside talk to hear;
While, from an upper casement bending,
A household maid, belike, sending
From jug or ewer a slopy shower,

That makes him homeward fleetly scour.
From lower rooms few gleams are sent,
From blazing hearth, through chink or rent;
But from the loftier chambers peer,
(Where damsels doff their gentle geer,
For rest preparing,) tapers bright,
Which give a momentary sight

Of some fair form with visage glowing,
With loosen'd braids and tresses flowing,
Who, busied, by the mirror stands,
With bending head and upraised hands,
Whose moving shadow strangely falls
With size enlarged on roof and walls.
Ah! lovely are the things, I ween,
By arrowy speed's light glam'rie seen!
Fancy, so touch'd, will long retain
That quickly seen, nor seen again.

But now he spies the flaring door
Of bridled Swan or gilded Boar,
At which the bowing waiter stands
To know th' alighting guest's commands.
A place of bustle, dirt, and din,
Cursing without, scolding within;
Of narrow means and ample boast,
The traveller's stated halting post,
Where trunks are missing or deranged,
And parcels lost and horses changed.

Yet this short scene of noisy coil
But serves our traveller as a foil,
Enhancing what succeeds, and lending
A charm to pensive quiet, sending
To home and friends, left far behind,
The kindliest musings of his mind;

Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain,
A dimness o'er the haggard train,

A mood and hour like this will throw,
As vex'd and burden'd spirits know.

Night, loneliness, and motion are
Agents of power to distance care;
To distance, not discard; for then,
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men,
Necessity to act suspended,

The present, past, and future blended,
Like figures of a mazy dance,
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance,
Till jolting stone, or turnpike gate
Arouse him from the soothing state.

And when the midnight hour is past,
If through the night his journey last,
When still and lonely is the road,
Nor living creature moves abroad,
Then most of all, like fabled wizard,
Night slily dons her cloak and vizard,

His eyes at every corner greeting,

With some new slight of dexterous cheating,

And cunningly his sight betrays,
E'en with his own lamps' partial rays.

The road, that in fair simple day
Through pasture land or corn-fields lay,
A broken hedge-row's ragged screen
Skirting its weedy margin green,—
With boughs projecting, interlaced
With thorn and brier, distinctly traced
On the deep shadows at their back,
That deeper sink to pitchy black,
Appearing oft to fancy's eye,

Like woven boughs of tapestrie,—

Seems now to wind through tangled wood,

Or forest wild, where Robin Hood,
With all his outlaws, stout and bold,
In olden days his reign might hold,
Where vagrant school-boy fears to roam,
The gipsy's haunt, the woodman's home.
Yea, roofless barn, and ruin'd wall,
As passing lights upon them fall,
When favour'd by surrounding gloom,
The castle's ruin'd state assume.

The steamy vapour that proceeds
From moisten'd hide of weary steeds,
And high on either hand doth rise,
Like clouds, storm-drifted, past him flies;
While liquid mire, by their hoof'd feet
Cast up, adds magic to the cheat,
Glancing presumptuously before him,
Like yellow diamonds of Cairngorum.

How many are the subtle ways,
By which sly night the eye betrays,
When in her wild fantastic mood,
By lone and wakeful traveller wooed!
Shall I proceed? O no! for now
Upon the black horizon's brow
Appears a line of tawny light;
Thy reign is ended, witching night!
And soon thy place a wizard elf,
(But only second to thyself
In glam'rie's art) will quickly take,
Spreading o'er meadow, vale, and brake,
Her misty shroud of pearly white :-
A modest, though deceitful wight,

Who in a softer, gentler way,

Will with the wakeful fancy play,
When knolls of woods, their bases losing,
Are islands on a lake reposing,
And streeted town, of high pretence,
As rolls away the vapour dense,
With all its wavy, curling billows,
Is but a row of pollard willows.-
O no! my traveller, still and lone,
A far, fatiguing way hath gone;
His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest,
And folds his arins, and goes to rest.

SIR MAURICE.

A BALLAD.

SIR MAURICE was a wealthy lord,

He lived in the north countrie,

Well would he cope with foeman's sword,
Or the glance of a lady's eye.

Now all his armed vassals wait,
A stanch and burly band,
Before his stately castle's gate,
Bound for the Holy Land.

Above the spearmen's lengthen'd file,

Are figured ensigns flying;

Stroked by their keeper's hand the while,
Are harness'd chargers neighing.

And looks of wo, and looks of cheer,
And looks the two between,
On many a warlike face appear,
Where tears have lately been.

For all they love is left behind;

Hope beckons them before:
Their parting sails spread to the wind,
Blown from their native shore.

Then through the crowded portal pass'd

Six goodly knights and tall;
Sir Maurice himself, who came the last,
Was goodliest of them all.

And proudly roved with hasty eye
O'er all the warlike train ;-
"Save ye, brave comrades! prosperously,
Heaven send us o'er the main !

"But see I right? an armed band

From Moorham's lordless hall;
And he who bears the high command,
Its ancient seneschal !

"Return; your stately keep defend;
Defend your lady's bower,

Lest rude and lawless hands should rend

That lone and lovely flower."—

"God will defend our lady dear,

And we will cross the sea,

From slavery's chain, his lot severe,
Our noble lord to free."-

"Nay, nay! some wandering minstrel's tongue, Hath framed a story vain;

Thy lord, his liegemen brave among,

Near Acre's wall was slain."

"Nay, good my lord! for had his life
Been lost on battle-ground,
When ceased that fell and fatal strife,
His body had been found.
"No faith to such delusions give;

His mortal term is past.”—
"Not so! not so! he is alive,
And will be found at last!"
These latter words right eagerly

From a slender stripling broke,
Who stood the ancient warrior by,
And trembled as he spoke.

Sir Maurice started at the sound,
And all from top to toe

The stripling scann'd, who to the ground
His blushing face bent low.
"Is this thy kinsman, seneschal ?
Thine own or thy sister's son ?

A gentler page, in tent or hall,
Mine eyes ne'er look'd upon.-

"To thine own home return, fair youth,
To thine own home return;

Give ear to likely, sober truth,

Nor prudent counsel spurn.
"War suits thee not, if boy thou art;
And if a sweeter name

Befit thee, do not lightly part

With maiden's honour'd fame."
He turn'd him from his liegemen all,
Who round their chieftain press'd;
His very shadow on the wall

His troubled mind express'd.

As sometimes slow and sometimes fast
He paced to and fro,

His plumy crest now upward cast
In air, now drooping low.
Sometimes like one in frantic mood,
'Short words of sound he utter'd,
And sometimes, stopping short, he stood,
As to himself he mutter'd.

"A daughter's love, a maiden's pride!
And may they not agree?
Could man desire a lovelier bride,
A truer friend than she?

"Down, cursed thought! a boy's garb

Betrays not wanton will,

Yet, sharper than an arrow's barb,

That fear might haunt me still."

He mutter'd long, then to the gate,
Return'd and look'd around,

But the seneschal and his stripling mate
Were nowhere to be found.

With outward cheer and inward smart,
In warlike fair array,

Did Maurice with his bands depart,
And shoreward bent his way.

Their stately ship rode near the port,

The warriors to receive;

And there, with blessings kind, but short,
Did friends of friends take leave.

And soon they saw the crowded strand

Wear dimly from their view;

And soon they saw the distant land,

A line of hazy blue.

The white-sail'd ship with favouring breeze,
In all her gallant pride,
Moved like the mistress of the seas,
That rippled far and wide.

Sometimes with steady course she went,

O'er wave and surge careering;
Sometimes with sidelong mast she bent,
Her wings the sea-foam sheering.
Sometimes, with poles and rigging bare,
She scudded before the blast;
But safely by the Syrian shore,

Her anchor dropt at last.
What martial honours Maurice won,
Join'd with the brave and great,
From the fierce, faithless Saracen,
I may not here relate.

With boldest band on bridge or moat,

With champion on the plain,

I' th' breach with clustering foes he fought, Choked up with grisly slain.

Most valiant by the valiant styled,

Their praise his deeds proclaim'd,
And oft his liegemen proudly smiled
To hear their leader named.

But fate will quell the hero's strength,
And dim the loftiest brow;
And this, our noble chief, at length
Was in the dust laid low.

He lay the heaps of dead beneath,

As sunk life's flickering flame,
And thought it was the trace of death,

That o'er his senses came.

And when again day's blessed light

Did on his vision fall,

There stood by his side, a wondrous sight!
The ancient seneschal.

He strove, but could not utter word,
His misty senses fled;
Again he woke, and Moorham's lord
Was bending o'er his bed.

A third time sank he, as if dead,
And then, his eyelids raising,
He saw a chief with turban'd head,
Intently on him gazing.

"The prophet's zealous servant I;
His battles I've fought and won;
Christians I scorn, their creeds deny,

But honour Mary's Son.

" And I have wedded an English dame,
And set her parent free;

And none, who wears an English name,
Shall e'er be thrall'd by me.

For her dear sake I can endure
All wrong, all hatred smother;
Whate'er I feel, thou art secure,
As though thou wert my brother."

"And thou hast wedded an English dame !" Sir Maurice said no more,

For o'er his heart soft weakness came,

He sigh'd and wept full sore.

And many a dreary day and night

With the Moslem chief stay'd he,
But ne'er could catch, to bless his sight,

One glimpse of the fair lady.
Oft gazed he on her lattice high
As he paced the court below,
And turn'd his listening ear to try
If word or accent low

Might haply reach him there; and oft
Traversed the garden green,
Wotting her footsteps small and soft
Might on the turf be seen.

And oft to Moorham's lord he gave
His listening ear, who told,
How he became a wretched slave
Within that Syrian hold;

What time from liegemen parted far,
Upon the battle field,

By stern and adverse fate of war
He was obliged to yield:

And how his daughter did by stealth
So boldly cross the sea

With secret store of gather'd wealth,

To set her father free:

And how into the foeman's hands
She and her people fell;
And how (herself in captive bands)
She sought him in his cell;

And but a captive boy appear'd,

Till grief her sex betray'd,
And the fierce Saracen, so fear'd!
Spoke gently to the maid:

How for her plighted hand sued he,
And solemn promise gave,
Her noble father should be free
With every Christian slave;

(For many there, in bondage kept,
Felt the stern rule of vice ;)
How, long she ponder'd, sorely wept,
Then paid the fearful price.-

A tale which made his bosom thrill,
His faded eyes to weep;

He, waking, thought upon it still,
And saw it in his sleep.

But harness rings, and the trumpet's bray
Again to battle calls;

And Christian powers, in grand array,

Are near those Moslem walls.

Sir Maurice heard; untoward fate!
Sad to be thought upon:
But the castle's lord unlock'd its gate,
And bade his guest be gone.

"Fight thou for faith by thee adored
By thee so well maintain'd!
But never may this trusty sword

With blood of thine be stain'd!".
L

Sir Maurice took him by the hand,
"God bless thee, too," he cried;
Then to the nearest Christian band
With mingled feelings hied.

The battle join'd, with dauntless pride
'Gainst foemen, foemen stood;
And soon the fatal field was dyed

With many a brave man's blood.

At length gave way the Moslem force; Their valiant chief was slain; Maurice protected his lifeless corse, And bore it from the plain.

There's mourning in the Moslem halls,
A dull and dismal sound:

The lady left its 'leaguer'd walls,
And safe protection found.

When months were past, the widow'd dame Look'd calm and cheerfully;

Then Maurice to her presence came,

And bent him on his knee.

What words of penitence or suit
He utter'd, pass we by;

The lady wept, awhile was mute,
Then gave this firm reply:

"That thou didst doubt my maiden pride
(A thought that rose and vanish'd
So fleetingly) I will not chide;

"Tis from remembrance banish'd.

"But thy fair fame, earn'd by thy sword, Still spotless shall it be:

I was the bride of a Moslem lord,

And will never be bride to thee."

So firm, though gentle, was her look,
Hope i' the instant fled:

A solemn, dear farewell he took,
And from her presence sped.
And she a plighted nun became,
God serving day and night;
And he of blest Jerusalem

A brave and zealous knight.

But that their lot was one of wo,
Wot ye, because of this
Their seperate single state? if so,
In sooth ye judge amiss.

She tends the helpless stranger's bed,
For alms her wealth is stored;
On her meek worth God's grace is shed,
Man's grateful blessings pour'd.

He still in warlike mail doth stalk,
In arms his prowess prove;
And oft of siege or battle talk,
And sometimes of his love.

She was the fairest of the fair,

The gentlest of the kind;

Search ye the wide world everywhere,

Her like ye shall not find.

She was the fairest, is the best,

Too good for a monarch's bride';

I would not give her in her nun's coif dress'd For all her sex beside.

ADDRESS TO A STEAM-VESSEL.
FREIGHTED with passengers of every sort,
A motley throng, thou leavest the busy port.
Thy long and ample deck, where scatter'd lie
Baskets, and cloaks, and shawls of scarlet dye;
Where dogs and children through the crowd are
straying,

And, on his bench apart, the fiddler playing,
While matron dames to tressell'd seats repair,-
Seems, on the gleamy waves a floating fair.
Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast,
Towers from this clustering group thy pillar'd mast.
The dense smoke issuing from its narrow vent
Is to the air in curly volumes sent,

Which, coiling and uncoiling on the wind,
Trails like a writhing serpent far behind.
Beneath, as each merged wheel its motion plies,
On either side the white-churn'd waters rise,
And, newly parted from the noisy fray,
Track with light ridgy foam thy recent way,
Then far diverged, in many a welted line
Of lustre, on the distant surface shine.

Thou hold'st thy course in independent pride;
No leave ask'st thou of either wind or tide.
To whate'er point the breeze, inconstant, veer,
Still doth thy careless helmsman onward steer;
As if the stroke of some magician's wand
Had lent thee power the ocean to command.
What is this power which thus within thee lurks,
And, all unseen, like a mask'd giant works?
E'en that which gentle dames, at morning's tea,
From silver urn ascending, daily see
With tressy wreathings playing in the air,
Like the loosed ringlets of a lady's hair;
Or rising from th' enamell'd cup beneath,
With the soft fragrance of an infant's breath:
That which within the peasant's humble cot
Comes from th' uncover'd mouth of savoury pot,
As his kind mate prepares his noonday fare,
Which cur, and cat, and rosy urchins share:
That which, all silver'd with the moon's pale beam,
Precedes the mighty Geyser's upcast stream,
What time, with bellowing din exploded forth,
It decks the midnight of the frozen north,
Whilst travellers from their skin-spread couches

rise

To gaze upon the sight with wondering eyes.

Thou hast to those "in populous city pent," Glimpses of wild and beauteous nature lent; A bright remembrance ne'er to be destroy'd, Which proves to them a treasure, long enjoy'd, And for this scope to beings erst confined, I fain would hail thee with a grateful mind.` They who had naught of verdant freshness seen But suburb orchards choked with colworts green Now, seated at their ease may glide along, Lochlomond's fair and fairy isles among; Where bushy promontories fondly peep At their own beauty in the nether deep, O'er drooping birch and berried row'n that lave Their vagrant branches in the glassy wave; They, who on higher objects scarce have counted Than church's spire with gilded vane surmounted, May view, within their near, distinctive ken, The rocky summits of the lofty Ben;

Or see his purpled shoulders darkly lower
Through the din drapery of a summer shower.
Where, spread in broad and fair expanse, the
Clyde

Mingles his waters with the briny tide,
Along the lesser Cumra's rocky shore,
With moss and crusted lichens flecker'd o'er,
E'en he, who hath but warr'd with thieving cat,
Or from his cupboard chased a hungry rat,
The city cobbler,-scares the wild seamew
In its mid-flight with loud and shrill halloo;
Or valiantly with fearful threatening shakes
His lank and greasy head at Kittywakes,*
The eyes that hath no fairer outline seen
Than chimney'd walls with slated roofs between,
Which hard and harshly edge the smoky sky,
May Aron's softly-vision'd peaks descry,
Cooping with graceful state her steepy sides,
O'er which the cloud's broad shadow swiftly glides,
And interlacing slopes that gently merge
Into the pearly mist of ocean's verge.

Eyes which admired that work of sordid skill,
The storied structure of a cotton mill,
May, wondering, now behold the unnumber'd host
Of marshall'd pillars on fair Ireland's coast,
Phalanx on phalanx ranged with sidelong bend,
Or broken ranks that to the main descend,
Like Pharaoh's army, on the Red Sea shore,
Which deep and deeper went to rise no more.
Yet ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee,
Rover at will on river, lake, and sea,
As profit's bait or pleasure's lure engage,
Thou offspring of that philosophic sage,
Watt, who in heraldry of science ranks,
With those to whom men owe high meed of thanks,
And shall not be forgotten, e'en when fame
Graves on her annals Davy's splendid name!—
Dearer to fancy, to the eye more fair,
Are the light skiffs, that to the breezy air
Unfurl their swelling sails of snowy hue
Upon the moving lap of ocean blue:

As the proud swan on summer lake displays,
With plumage brightening in the morning rays,
Her fair pavilion of erected wings,-

They change, and veer, and turn like living things.

So fairly rigg'd, with shrouding, sails and mast,
To brave with manly skill the winter blast
Of every clime,-in vessels rigg'd like these
Did great Columbus cross the western seas,
And to the stinted thoughts of man reveal'd
What yet the course of ages had conceal'd.
In such as these, on high adventure bent
Round the vast world Magellan's comrades went.
To such as these are hardy seamen found
As with the ties of kindred feeling bound,
Boasting, as cans of cheering grog they sip,
The varied fortunes of "our gallant ship."
The offspring these of bold sagacious man
Ere yet the reign of letter'd lore began.

In very truth, compared to these thou art
A daily labourer, a mechanic swart,
In working weeds array'd of homely gray,
Opposed to gentle nymph or lady gay,

To whose free robes the graceful right is given
To play and dally with the winds of heaven.
Beholding thee, the great of other days
And modern men with all their alter'd ways,
Across my mind with hasty transit gleam,
Like fleeting shadows of a feverish dream:
Fitful I gaze with adverse humours teased,

Half sad, half proud, half angry, and half pleased.

TO MRS. SIDDONS.

GIFTED of Heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
Moved every heart, delighted every eye,
While age and youth, of high and low degree,
In sympathy were join'd, beholding thee,
As in the drama's ever changing scene
Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen!
No barriers there thy fair domain confined,
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind;
And, in the triumph of that witching hour,
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.

Th' impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face,
Thy stately form and high imperial grace;
Thine arms impetuous tost, thy robe's wide flow,
And the dark tempest gather'd on thy brow,
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne ;
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
The fix'd and yearning looks of strong affection;
The action'd turmoil of a bosom rending,
When pity, love, and honour are contending;-
Who have beheld all this, right well I ween!
| A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen.
Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow,
Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick and
low,

The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief,
And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief;
The change of voice and emphasis that threw
Light on obscurity, and brought to view
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,
Or mingled humours, terse and new, elude
Common perception, as earth's smallest things
To size and form the vesting hoarfrost brings,
Which seem'd as if some secret voice, to clear
The ravell'd meaning, whisper'd in thine ear,
And thou had'st even with him communion kept,
Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept, I
Whose lines, where Nature's brightest traces shine,
Alone were worthy deem'd of powers like thine;
They, who have heard all this, have proved full
well

Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell.

But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee
glide,

And pomp of regal state is cast aside,
Think not the glory of thy course is spent ;
There's moonlight radiance to thy evening lent,
Which from the mental world can never fade,
Till all who've seen thee in the grave are laid.
Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams,
And what thou wert to the wrapt sleeper seems:

* The common or vulgar name of a water-bird frequent. While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace ing that coast.

Within her curtain'd couch thy wondrous face.

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