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And-for his power to hurt or kill Was bounded by a higher will
Evanish'd in the storm.
Nor paused the Champion of the North, But raised, and bore his Eivir forth, From that wild scene of fiendish strife, To light, to liberty, and life!
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.
Or how could page's rugged dress
O, dull of heart, through wild and wave
Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd, Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard,
The stains of recent conflict clear'd,
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly, Speaks shame-facedness and hope.
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.
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
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.
Titania's foot without a slip, Like thine, though timid, light, and slim,
Which could yon oak's prone trunk
Shall shrink beneath the burden dear
And now we reach the favourite glade, Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone,
Where never harsher sounds invade,
To break affection's whispering tone, Than the deep breeze that waves the shade,
Than the small brooklet's feeble
Come rest thee on thy wonted seat;
The boughs, that dim the summer sky,
That fain would spread the invidious
How Lucy of the lofty eye,
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
And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met
Pride mingled in the sigh her voice,
Well pleased that thou art Arthur's
Mysword-its master must be dumb;
My heart! 'mid all yon courtly crew,
Yet shamed thine own is placed They praised thy diamonds' lustre so low:
Thou turn'st thy self-confessing check,
Match'd with thine eyes, I thought it faded;
As if to meet the breeze's cooling; Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, For Love, too, has his hours of schooling.
Too oft my anxious eye has spied That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide,
The passing pang of humbled pride; Too oft, when through the splendid hall,
The load-star of eachheart and eye, My fair one leads the glittering ball, Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall,
With such a blush and such a sigh! Thou wouldst not yield, for wealth or rank,
The heart thy worth and beauty
Nor leave me on this mossy bank,
That to thy lover fate denies
Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part,
A lyre, a falchion, and a heart?
They praised the pearls that bound thy hair
I only saw the locks they braided; They talk'd of wealthy dower and land,
And titles of high birth the token-I thought of Lucy's heart and hand,
Nor knew the sense of what was
And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll,
Who rate the dower above the soul,
My lyre-it is an idle toy,
That borrows accents not its own, Like warbler of Colombian sky,
That sings but in a mimic tone.
It ne'er was graced with fair renown;
Norwon-best meed to minstrel truc,
By one poor streamlet sounds its tone,
WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain
She must be lovely, and constant, and
Holy and pure, and humble of mind,
But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell
Whose lay's requital was that tardy
Who bound no laurel round his living head,
Should hang it o'er his monument when dead
For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand,
And thread, like him, the maze of fairy land;
Of golden battlements to view the gleam,
Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,
And slumber soft by some Elysian His blood it was fever'd, his breathing
Such lays she loves; and, such my
He had been pricking against the Scot,
What other song can claim her Poet's voice?
Lovely as the sun's first ray
Constant and true as the widow'd dove,
Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs:
Courteous as monarch the morn he is crown'd,
Generous as spring-dews that bless
Noble her blood as the currents that met
That shall match with Sir Roland of
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight
All in the castle must hold them still,
Till sleep sink down upon his breast
It was the dawn of an autumn day;
That like a silvery crape was spread
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,
When she thinks her lover near.'
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. He is sprung from Druid sires, And British bards that tuned their lyres To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise. Gifted like his gifted race, He the characters can trace, Graven deep in elder time Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime; Sign and sigil well doth he know, And can bode of weal and woe, Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars, From mystic dreams and courseofstars. He shall tell if middle earth To that enchanting shape gave birth, Or if 'twas but an airy thing, Such as fantastic slumbers bring, Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes