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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,
A silver runnel bubbled by,
And new-born thoughts his soul

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

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!'


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
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.


But vainly seems the Dane to seek
For terms his new-born love to speak,
For words, save those of wrath and

Till now were strangers to his tongue;
So, when he raised the blushing maid,
In blunt and honest terms he said
("Twere well that maids, when lovers

Heard none more soft, were all as true):
'Eivir since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line
Of after-life I follow thine.
To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side,
A Christian knight and Christian bride;
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel
be said,

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.


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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
Of form so slender, light, and fine;
So now, the danger dared at last,
Look back, and smile at perils past!


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;
Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green,
A place where lovers best may meet
Who would not that their love be


The boughs, that dim the summer sky,
Shall hide us from cach lurking spy,

That fain would spread the invidious

How Lucy of the lofty eye,
Noble in birth, in fortunes high,
She for whom lords and barons sigh,
Meets her poor Arthur in the dale.

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
Its colour from some secret cause,
Some hidden movement of the breast
She would not that her Arthur guess'd?
O quicker far is lovers' ken
Than the dull glance of common men,
And, by strange sympathy, can spell
The thoughts the loved one will not

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

Well pleased that thou art Arthur's




Mysword-its master must be dumb;
But, when a soldier names my
Approach, my Lucy! fearless come,
Nor dread to hear of Arthur's

My heart! 'mid all yon courtly crew,
Of lordly rank and lofty line,
Is there to love and honour true,
That boasts a pulse so warm as

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,
To meet a rival on a throne:
Why, then, should vain repinings

That to thy lover fate denies
A nobler name, a wide domain,
A Baron's birth, a menial train,

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,
I might have learn'd their choice

Who rate the dower above the soul,
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes.


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.
Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well,
Nor boasts it aught of Border spell;
Its strings no feudal slogan pour,
Its heroes draw no broad claymore;
No shouting clans applauses raise,
Because it sung their father's praise;
On Scottish moor, or English down,

It ne'er was graced with fair renown;


Norwon-best meed to minstrel truc,
One favouring smile from fair Buc-

By one poor streamlet sounds its tone,
And heard by one dear maid alone.

Canto First.


WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain
That may match with the Baron of
Triermain ?

She must be lovely, and constant, and

Holy and pure, and humble of mind,
Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood,
Courteous, and generous, and noble
of blood;


But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell
Of errant knight, and damozelle;
Of the dread knot a Wizard tied,
In punishment of maiden's pride,
In notes of marvel and of fear,
That best may charm romantic ear.
For Lucy loves (like COLLINS, ill-
starred name,

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


was deep.

Such lays she loves; and, such my
Lucy's choice,

He had been pricking against the Scot,
The foray was long, and the skirmish

What other song can claim her Poet's voice?

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Lovely as the sun's first ray
When it breaks the clouds of an April

Constant and true as the widow'd dove,
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love;
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave,
Where never sunbeam kiss'd the wave;
Humble as maiden that loves in vain,
Holy as hermit's vesper strain ;
Gentle as breeze that but whispers and

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
the glad ground;

Noble her blood as the currents that met
In the veins ofthe noblest Plantagenet:
Such must her form be, her mood,
and her strain,

That shall match with Sir Roland of

His dinted helm and his buckler's plight
Bore token of a stubborn fight.

All in the castle must hold them still,
Harpers must lull him to his rest
With the slow soft tunes he loves the

Till sleep sink down upon his breast
Like the dew on a summer hill.


It was the dawn of an autumn day;
The sun was struggling with frost-fog


That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant


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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 tall-
He 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.'

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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

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