Edith of Graystock. A Poem : electronic version.

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 154 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian Edith of Graystock : a poem Hervey, T. K., Mrs., 1811-1903. by Eleanor M. Henry Lindsell London 1833

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Latin November 30, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections. EDITH OF GRAYSTOCK.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WALTON AND MITCHELL, WARDOUR STREET.

[Title Page]

Edith of Graystock.A POEM. BY ELEANOR M. LONDON: HENRY LINDSELL, WIMPOLE STREET. M DCCC XXXIII. Edith of Graystock. "The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, And oh! that eye was in itself a soul!" The Bride of Abydos. CANTO I. I. ULLSWATER! thy romantic lake, With hill and valley clustering round, Unites those stirring thoughts to wake, Which make thy scene enchanted ground: Helvellyn's range above thee towering, Lifting its summit to the sky, The steepness of its dark sides low'ring Over thy quiet, fearfully; Thy depths of stilly waters sleeping, By their own silent weight oppress'd, Thine own hills o'er them sentry keeping, As if to guard their shadow'd rest— These, and each lowly vale that lieth Where'er the breeze most faintly sigheth, Each hidden dell, and woodland green, Recall the years that once have been. II. It needs not ruin'd tower, nor moat, Nor pictured knight, nor warder's note, To rouse the spirit free, Or stir the pulse that beats and bounds And quickly to the tone resounds, And soul of chivalry: The mountain's stern, unyielding brow, Remains, a type of knighthood's vow, Upholding still its firm intent, Nor e'er by tempest moved or bent; Beneath—the smooth earth's verdant path Speaks with the voice of woman's faith; The freshness of its spring, unbroken, May never brave the winter's breath, Yet of its strength, a mournful token Lies in roots all dark beneath. Thus ever do we love to trace In still and speechless things, The light, the glory, and the grace, Some memory o'er them flings: Shedding our dreams like incense o'er the earth, Whose flowers must wither e'er we know their worth. III. Beside that lake of many hills, Whose waters greet a thousand rills, Near where Gowbarrow lands adjoin The wild recess of deep Glencoin, Rose Graystock towers. (1) No vestige now remains to tell Of hearts that beat, to hearts that swell, And musing, on those vallies dwell, And pleasant bowers: One hall there is whose steep walls gleam Through moonlight's glow or sunny beam, Which bears the name, Tho' not the same As that which made mine olden dream. IV. Within the castle's spacious hall, Midst banner'd roof and trophied wall And arch of gothic mould, Tired with the chase and noon-tide heat, His staunch hounds crouching at his feet, For that gorgeous place an owner meet Sat Graystock's baron bold: The broider'd cap, and eagle plume, They could not hide The glance of pride That did that eye's swift flash illume, As turned its gaze o'er lake and dell, From Place-fell high to Hallen-fell, And thro' the lofty window view'd That rich and splendid solitude. But Lyulph's brow wore less of night, And Lyulph's eye a milder light, Soon as his quick ear caught the sound Woke by some footstep's fairy bound, The old oak floor all lightly pressing, Hastening to meet a father's blessing— The only being who could tame That nature stern and wild, Was she—in loveliness that came, The baron's gentle child. V. She was a thing of swan-like grace, With thought and feeling rife, Whose soul shone o'er her speaking face In more than mortal life. You might have looked on her—and deem'd Some vision'd heaven around her stream'd; Yet when you heard her voice's tone, Confess'd that heaven was all her own. The dark hair, rich with many a fold, Waved o'er her forehead in its flow, As some soft cloud had dimly roll'd Its shade along the spotless snow: Oh! who shall say if that clear brow Again may wear such light as now? Who shall foretell the hidden doom Slumbering within that check's young bloom? Perchance that blight, whose canker dwells In hearts, that, like the wild bee's cells, One summer's gatherings disclose, Yet each with its own sweet wealth o'erflows: Or it may be a fairer spring, Whose blossoms know no withering, Shall bless that spirit, innocent and free, Where sorrow, like the forest king, Before her glance of purity Shall turn and flee; And life be never call'd to bear The dream, whose waking is despair; The thought, whose silent echo never dies; The heart, whose offering is a sacrifice. VI. And ask we if o'er those fair years, Tho' few—tho' beautifully calm— Love's world had thrown its dew of tears, Or breath'd its sigh of more than balm? Peace! do we question of the tide The power that smooth's or foams its waters? For even as that unfailing guide Is the smile of love to beauty's daughters. And Edith loved—but to her ear There came no woe with that deep word; What had the guileless one to fear, Who heeded not, if e'er she heard Of broken faith, or change, or chill, Who trusted well and trusted still? VII. And now in beauty, from her bower, That child of grace and meekness came To cheer the baron's lonely hour, His fond embrace to meet and claim, And hear him bless his Edith's name. "Father! dear father!—for the chase I saw you take your wonted place, And follow'd far as eye could stray The flying steed and pageant gay, And now, from my summer bower, am come To greet you with a welcome home— But wherefore thus?—Sure some mischance Speaks from your brow—and in your glance A strange and troubled meaning lies, You fain would from your child disguise; Yet let me bear at least a part, Whate'er the ill—for woman's heart Best knows the evil to repress, And, by dividing, make it less. Oh! trust me then, that I may chide The cloud you strive, but cannot hide, And turn its heaviness aside." VIII. "My Edith! thine own fears have wrought This cloud which thou alone canst see, From what was but a passing thought, Forgotten, when I look'd on thee: Or in thy presence unconfess'd, For thou wert ever gentlest—best. Then suffer not a fancied ill One moment's bouyancy to chill; If aught my looks might seem to wear Of weariness, or strife, or care, Believe 'twas nothing; or, at most, A shade that o'er my spirit cross'd, Others might hold, but which from mine Must flee before one word of thine. IX. Tho' Lyulph thus essay'd to stay, Or chase affection's fears away, Truly affection's eye had read; It was not all as he had said. And now the rising thought to veil, To him was new and irksome task, Whate'er the mood which might prevail, He was not wont that mood to mask; Too proud to cover or betray He let the feeling have its way, And scorn'd the mind that could assume Unreal smiles, or feign a gloom, Or wear a guise unlike its own, As tho' it would itself disown. Still for her sake alone he strove Who claim'd his stern heart's all of love, And banish'd from his brow and mien What he had felt and she had seen. Nor slight the cause which could unfold, Such change in one of such a mould; Nor slight the fear, if fear could dwell Where never valour shone so well; For he had mark'd a sudden strife, (Not that which makes the battle's joy), A storm whose weight o'er human life Falls but to scatter or destroy; The quenching of a hope—that beam Which, like a midnight lamp, is burning; Tho' day be past, still with a gleam Of gladness to our sight returning. Lyulph had watch'd its ray grow dim, In one whose smile was Edith's light, And seen despair grow strong for him To whom her gentle troth was plight; Whose sun had set in darkness and in night. X. There stood two warriors 'neath the walls Where Graystock's battled turrets frown'd, Where deepen'd shadow ever falls From keep, and tower, and rampart round: The noon-day sun above them shining, Nor pierced, nor lit that shadow'd space, As there, against their steeds reclining They leant, dismounted from the chase. In each, youth's generous feelings met; On either, knighthood's seal was set. Tho' the link'd mail was cast aside With all the pomp of battle's pride, The crested helm and blazon'd shield, Still bore they martial plight; They were companions in the field, (2) Sworn brothers in the fight. One bore the merry glance, which best May suit the gay and festive hour, When lightsome lay, and lighter jest, Echoing ring thro' hall and bower; The other held that eagle look, Which guilt may ne'er unflinching brook, Within whose world of silent thought The deep and kindled spirit wrought. A scarf upon his arm he wore, The silken pledge of his lady's love, Whose azure ground was sparkled o'er With silver threads encross'd and wove; While from his neck, a chain of gold Fell o'er the rich embroidered vest, In many a link of massive mould, And burnish'd ring upon his breast. Ne'er truer knight cross'd falchion good Than Harold, young and brave De Vere! Or he, tho' gay and light of mood, The baron's son and Graystock's heir. XI. Suddenly—with flying speed, Loosen'd rein, and breathing freed, And rowel buried deep, Midst the iron hoof's echoed pealing, Swiftly thro' the court-yard wheeling, Message of deep import revealing, A horse and rider sweep. Onward they come, with toil and foam, While the horseman with dust besprent, By the packet he bears and the badge he wears, Seems on a royal errand sent: Sir Harold the proffer'd scroll hath ta'en, And his glance hath o'er it flown, While across the drawbridge—fleet, again Rider and steed are gone. XII. He look'd upon the words it bore As one whose mind had wander'd hence, As tho' the lines had nought of power, To fix their meaning on his sense. Silent he stood, and still, and cold, While years in moments o'er him roll'd: It seem'd as, that long pang throughout, His very life became a doubt; And all that once had been—were void, By that one lightning-stroke destroy'd; Each glorious thought and gentler feeling Forth from his spirit's bound were stealing, And every storm were gather'd there In one full tide of dark despair. XIII. 'Twas then, when woe's cold wing came down, On every feature wildly thrown, That Lyulph pass'd, and mark'd its shade Waft o'er the ruin it had made; Yet spoke he not—thus still repell'd, Or by some unseen hand withheld, The power of speech will often die, Yet heed we not the mystery. Perchance one word of kindness spoken That withering moment's spell had broken; Loosen'd the chords his soul that bound, And rous'd it from its prison ground. XIV. At length the truth on Harold fell, His fierce and slumbering wrath to swell: "Now perish'd be the head and hand, And cursed the rebel heart that plann'd This foul and trait'rous lie! Oh! could I but my knighthood prove On him this treacherous falsehood wove, And black conspiracy: But once to meet him brand to brand, And bid the coward! caitiff!—stand, And lay him dust to dust; That so he ne'er might slander more, Who thus in Richard's ear could pour The poison of distrust. But no! he bears the assassin's mark, Nor strikes, nor stabs, save in the dark. Farewell revenge!—farewell my fame!— With treason coupled with my name, Far from my own free land to roam— A banish'd exile from my home; Yet could I hope—in vain, in vain, That thought may never wake again; And Edith too!—be hush'd my soul! Lest hate too wildly o'er thee roll, And thoughts of madness round me throng In fury at this bitter wrong. Thee I forgive, thou Lion-heart! I do but curse the Tiger's part, That thus could come in stealth, and spring On one in his honor slumbering; Who falls beneath the dastard's guile, And rues his fang—yet scorns his wile!" XV. He turn'd—while on his lip there dwelt The very scorn he spoke and felt; And towards Sir Ralph the packet held, Which thus his soaring hopes had quell'd. Sir Ralph the royal mandate took, Yet on the knight forbore to look: Of each the struggling feeling shone In either hand's mute grasp alone: Whatever thoughts in secret stirr'd, They parted there without a word. Yet in that pressure, firm and true, Brothers in arms!—your faith ye knew; And in that moment's silence deep Were vows for your noble hearts to keep. Ye dreamt not, Ralph! in your yet fresh youth, Of aught save chivalry and truth; Ye had not learnt the worldly part, To throw the crush'd one from your heart; In life's most sunny path to stray, And from the tempest fall away. Ye saw one star thro' fortune's night, And follow'd—glorying in its light, Thro' every change—thro' every blast, In faith and honor—to the last. XVI. And there was one whose full deep woe No lip hath power or speech to tell; To breathe the grief whose poison'd flow Came mingling with that word—farewell! Each blessing, down life's shadowy slope Seem'd passing from her grasp away, And every shade of every hope Fled, startled at its own decay: All that her soul could deem of worth In one wild stream went bounding forth, And with her being's failing light Roll'd onward, melting into night. Oh! little heed we of that strife, The first chill touch of some buoyant life, Or only mark as one of all The woes that hold our souls in thrall; Or but as one full cup the more Of all the death draughts gone before: Another link to weave the chain That binds young brows in their parting pain; Another drop, the fount to swell, Of tears that weep their first farewell. And more than all, now less we deem As onward carelessly we stray, How often rolls that waveless stream Whose waters never pass away; But gliding to the lonely heart, There rest, as in some darksome cave Where ne'er on any ruin'd part Shall fall one ray to gladden or to save. XVII. Sorrow was with them as they pass'd,— Harold and Edith—by that lake, Whose soft blue gaze upon them cast Now seem'd one long fond look to take Of those who fear'd, and knew not whether That hour were not perchance the last That they might gaze on it together. The sun fast sinking o'er each hill, Call'd slow the silent glooming on; Yet all so bright his setting still It found no place to rest upon: And like that dove of weary flight Must wander thro' the viewless air, Until on some green leaf it light, To fold anew its soft wings there. They saw not this, nor heard, nor felt Aught save the world that in them dwelt; Their own deep love the mystic ring, Beyond which earthly hope was not,— Where each, in fervent worshipping, Breath'd vows, oh! ne'er to be forgot, And never broken:—thus they moved Along that smooth lake's grassy side, One truth, that each were best beloved Both felt, and neither sought to hide. It was no time for idle word When parting anguish wildly stirr'd; No time for aught but truth alone When all but faith and trust were gone. There were none there to mar that hour, In all its sweet and bitter power; Their steps were midst the waving trees— Their voices mingled with the breeze, And soft and low the sweet tones fell, O'er many a flower's half hidden bell, That gemm'd the cold earth 'neath them spread, Like new hopes risen from the dead. So faint the sounds that stillness woke, You scarce had deem'd the silence broke, And echo slumber'd—answering not The music of that haunted spot. XVIII. "I go, dear Edith, darkly forth From all my spirit held and bound, From this free land of the glorious earth, And thou who mad'st it fairy ground. My path will lie where the south winds sigh O'er the wave-bound shores of Sicily; Yet bright will be nor sea, nor air, Without thy smile to greet me there; And cold my welcome in the halls Where ne'er thy voice of music falls. One only joy—one only blessing My heart rejoices in possessing,— Thy gentle vow! altho' 'twould be More generous to leave thee free, If I could deem—when I am gone— No!—for that thought, unworthy thee, Only its briefness can atone. My soul will turn, where'er I roam, To where its all of life hath set, And bless my Edith in her home, Nor dream that she can e'er forget." XIX. "No, Harold, no! too deep the spell That binds this heart—for thee alone, Whose thoughts must ever with thee dwell, And oh! through all things still thine own. There was a time I blush'd to tell How much its bliss on thee must rest, For then this hour I had not known, When first I learn to say farewell, And part from all I love the best. O! where will be my joy, my pride, As now upon thine arm to lean, With thee to wander by my side By valley, lake, or forest green, And know no other world beside? For ever gone!—for ever past My dream of earth—too sweet to last: Yet if my heart in feeling this Could give thee rest, its woe were bliss, And welcome every pang to mine, If I could steal but one from thine. It may not be—that thought is o'er, And I may look on thee no more; No more, no more! and can this be, That I shall see thee not again, And this bright sun, in losing thee, Look smiling o'er my path in vain? Vacant and still shall be thy place In halls thy step was wont to grace; And weariness on all things lying, And fall'n the hopes around me dying; And desolate the clouds that lour, While fades the rose in Edith's bow'r." XX. Oh! still in strong affection's might The thrilling soul will gush along, Even with a full and pure delight, Sweet as the melody of song: And like the beauty of a sound, Whene'er a sudden chill comes o'er it, The chord that woke is ever found To murmur, fall, or sink before it. So swell'd the souls that there were meeting, So stirr'd each pulse that then was beating— So, with the touch from sorrow won, Those broken tones went murmuring on. XXI. Cold fell the dew, and keen the air, While long and sad their wand'ring there; Yet e'er they left that place of sighs Their steps grew lighter, and their eyes Bore something of their olden light Of summer, in each other's sight; Yet 'twas of summer whence the hue Of morn to eve had pass'd away In flitting shadows, which subdue, Not quench, the light o'er which they play: Nor parted they as those whose trust Had sunk to slumber in the dust; Hope from their brows look'd out anew, While whisper'd faith their voices through, And trust was their's—the gentle and the true! XXII. 'Twas night,—when night is more than day, And fairer than its sunny ray; When all of rich, and soft, and clear, In mellow'd tones are breathing near, And the hush'd stillness moves around Unbroken, save by murmur'd sound When tremble to some lonely breeze The shuddering forms of waving trees, That quail before the wind that playeth Thro' leaves whose bloom its voice betrayeth; The flapping of the night-bird's wing Through hush and silence answering. XXIII. 'Twas night,—in stillness, not in gloom, That fell o'er many a trophied tomb Where an ancient chapel stood. The pale moon there a radiance shed O'er sculptured forms of the buried dead, And gleam'd o'er the holy rood: While bright, yet sad, in deepen'd glow On the stern lip, and the sterner brow, That in death seem'd still to frown; On 'scutcheon of richest and deepest stain, Banner of battle, and storied pane, The solemn light came down; Gladdening the slumbers of those who lay (As if to dreams of their battle day) With their good swords by their side, The uprais'd point of whose marble blade (3) Told proudly, with the shield display'd, That each mute sleeper thus array'd, A victor in combat died; While they who bore nor spur, nor shield, Nor sword for the stoney hand to wield, Were such as, far from battle field, Had captive sunk to rest. (4) The light came there, intense and chill, The trophy's empty place to fill, Beside the unshrouded breast; And seem'd the form 'neath its beam to swell Where shadow of no banner fell And rose no towering crest. Yet still o'er all, the moon-rays lying, The might of darkness and death defying, Seem'd on those silent tombs to smile, And solemn graves of that lonely aisle; Shedding a gorgeous light—that roll'd A richer hue o'er each banner fold; Giving life to forms that in strife had bled— Soul, to the face of the sculptured dead— O'er the young heads rest its gleaming pall, And light, and glory, to each and all. XXIV. Not alone in the presence of perish'd years That shrine its hallow'd symbol rears; Nor are the shades on its altar cast Compass'd alone by the dreary past. Tho' dwell the dead in that place of pray'r, There are other and lovelier there: Other and brighter are they who kneel, One sheath'd in mail of the glancing steel, And one, with robe, as the snow-wreath white, And drooping head, by that warrior knight: While on the vow their lips reveal, And in the true heart's worship seal, A blessing lies, whose solemn voice Calls on their spirits to rejoice, In awe, not fear,—and softly stills The throbbing hearts o'er which it thrills. XXV. "Blest be ye ever in your vow With love as holy, true, as now: Be ye blest, in youth and age, Thro' your earthly pilgrimage. May the hand of faith uphold ye, And the wings of trust enfold ye; May the spirit of this hour Never lose its sacred pow'r, But still its memory gently sever Despair from your young hearts for ever. In the wood and in the wild Meet ye with a blessing mild; Thro' the strife of worldly care Greet ye with a voice of pray'r. Meekly to bow, and murmur not Thro' all things, is your earthly lot; Yet may its thought be ever near you, With a pow'r to bless and cheer you. If woe too long and darkly stay, Kneel ye in your faith—and pray; When torrents cross your youthful dream, Turn ye from their troubled stream; Even in your hour of sorrow turn, Not as to your griefs to mourn, But unto One who ne'er betrayeth, Who guides the step where'er it strayeth, Tho' light and buoyant, worn, or weak, And may ye find the peace ye seek! Blessings be yours—and joy—and rest! Once more I bless you—be ye blest." XXVI. With outstretch'd arms, and brow of eld, And wither'd hands above them held— With eye of sunken light, and hair Grown scant and pale with many a care; And the full deep voice and tone Which stills all echo, save its own— So stood a man of age to bless Those young heads low before him bending, Their spell of grace and gentleness Even to that place of sternness lending. Thus spoke the man of many years, In words that breathe—in tones that swell, While eyes whose light, age only sears, But wants the pow'r their soul to quell, Shed forth their milder gaze, to rest On those that solemn voice had bless'd. XXVII. They rose—while in the light that gleam'd And o'er th' armorial pavement stream'd, (5) Both stood reveal'd;—the steel-clad knight, His hauberk of the twisted mail Shining in links of quivering light Like waters, moonlit, bright and pale, When shoot their sparkles through the night Unshadow'd by the darkening sail— Bore the high brow and princely mien Which spoke De Vere's bold presence nigh, And left, where'er his step had been, Th' unquestion'd soul of chivalry: While she who held his plighted vow Ne'er wore a look more sweet than now, When changing, for the 'exile's bride,' The name which in her native bowers She bore thro' more unclouded hours— Of Graystock Hall the 'flower and pride.' XXVIII. They parted in that haunted place, And on that spot one mute embrace With sinking hearts they took and gave, The first—perchance the last; Then silently o'er many a grave The banish'd warrior pass'd, And from that chapel's splendor turn'd To where his barb the wild moss spurn'd. A single squire his casque to bear Relieved the fane's deep shadow there. The knight his fiery steed restrain'd— With one light bound the saddle gain'd, Then left that steed to wander free With loosen'd rein—and it might be Perchance the shadow of a tear Had made that hour more dark appear, And dimmed the troubled glance he cast On that free land o'er which he pass'd; Whose trees, at every cold breath threw Their leaves his farewell path to strew— For once his head was seen to bow, And cross'd his mail'd hand o'er his brow: And once he sigh'd, while gazing round His last fond look on English ground. XXIX. Still fell the moon-beams, soft, to grace The trophies of that gorgeous place, And still within that altar's shade Long, long, young Edith knelt and pray'd: The aged man had pass'd away Thro' moonlit arch of ivy'd grey— He left her in her beauty's light, When waved her white arm thro' the night. No sound her dreamy spell to wake Might on that hour's communing break; Scarce breath, where felt her shrouded soul The mystery of its still control; Nor voice, like murmurs of the lute, For she was spirit-led; And silent midst the ever mute, And lone amidst the dead. Around her as a glory stream'd A thousand tints that blush'd and beam'd: 'Neath where she knelt and o'er her head Were hues of rainbow lustre shed; Above—a rich and ruby stain O'erflow'd from each high, gothic pane; The coloured pavement, starr'd and traced, With rich mosaic scrolls was graced (6) In birds, and flowers of wreathing stems Like sands strew'd o'er with fairy gems; More brilliant than aught save the waving fold Of long dark hair that o'er them roll'd, In circles e'en as rich and bright As those which slumber'd in its light. Alone, her guarded vigil keeping— Ancestral forms around her sleeping; Still, as their own unbroken rest Where no pulse stirs the marble breast; Graceful, as willow boughs—when sleep Bright streams the leaves that o'er them weep; Gentle, as smiles on lips of angels worn, Lovely as eve, and beautiful as morn— Was she, who there in night and silence cast Her gentle spirit o'er the dreamy past. END OF CANTO I. Edith of Graystock. CANTO II. I. There went a voice through the halls of yore, Whose words were a battle spell, And the echoing rocks of our island shore Broke the tones as they darkly fell. It came in sighs from the olive groves, And the desert's lonely calm, From sunny lands where the wild bee roves O'er the tall and waving palm: It had roam'd o'er mountains and swell'd o'er seas, Wafted on wings of the rushing breeze; Its notes had rung where the sweet voice sang, Of old, e're the wild harp slept, When o'er his theme, by Babel's stream, The minstrel sat and wept. (7) On wave and shore that sound of wail Had murmur'd to the answering gale: From where the cedar's dusk boughs sweep, That voice had wander'd o'er the deep; Had still'd the storm and tempest's might, Or stirr'd the rest of lonely night. It was the moan from Sinai's steep Where streams by branching aloes weep, And winds come faint with the scented myrrh O'er the land of the holy sepulchre: 'Twas the solemn dirge of a faith profan'd In distant Palestine,— The mourning voice of that Syrian land, O'er a sainted and captive shrine. II. Uprose the moan no ear had lost, And with it England's banner'd host: It came as once in other days When, Cambria's gather'd force to raise, That one loud summons fill'd the blast Thro' Cambrian halls that came and past, When the bent bow was borne afar, (8) The herald of a coming war. Many a knight and baron bold Forsook the bow'r and left the hold, And, rendering mute each vacant place, Stray'd from the banquet and the chase; Girded the swords their fathers wore, And raised some battle-cry of yore: The 'broider'd gloves those hands that graced The jointed gauntlet stern replaced; And for the gay and silken vest, The hauberk's iron weight oppress'd. Small trace their holy purpose wore, Save in the cross their shoulders bore, Or where, in pilgrim's garb array'd, Some staff-supported wanderer stray'd. And thus, beneath old Syria's sky, 'Gainst Paynim bands their might to try,— And Paynim banners to defy, They sought the land where the lordly pine Waves o'er the fields of Palestine Leaving each silent hearth and home, Afar thro' Grecian isles to roam— And in those homes were hearts that wept, And by those hearths the welcome slept. Like the swift breeze which autumn flings Singing along Eolian strings, When ring those wild chords' answering sound, And hear and feel the spell around, So, where the voice of conquest sang, The answering steel's high music rang; And like the summer's gentler breath, Those harsh tones sighing into death, Sorrow's soft touch from pale lips drew The fainter murmurs of adieu. III. The wind swept free o'er the fields of France, As it rose in a triumph strain, With the mingled sound of the war-steed's prance O'er fair Vezellay's plain: (9) Where'er those hoofs' light bound was heard, The trumpet's martial music stirr'd To the strain, fair Yonne! thy waters sang And, Burgundy! thy borders rang; The knightly pennons waved on high Their double stream along the sky, With standards to the breeze unfurl'd— The gathered banners of a world. IV. Along that plain proud ranks were set Beneath an autumn sky; There England's best and bravest met, And France's chivalry: There moved, with crest and plumage tost, And helmets glancing bright, The leaders of each mighty host, The red cross, and the white. (10) From the dense throng some space apart, Rode the brave and princely Lion-heart. His battle-axe hung loose and low And weighty, at his saddle-bow; His kingly helmet's sable gloom Was crested with the flowering broom, And on the firm closed lip there dwelt The soul which is not heard, but felt, And in that eye of quickest glance The fire of knightly chevisance; While scarcely less in bearing high, Majestic brow, and lip, and eye, Was he who in that place of pride Rode like a brother by his side. Many a bard whose numbers, long Had slumber'd in the grave of song, At their high deeds, each warlike strain Would summon from its trance again, And to those names his harp would string— Philip of France, and England's king. V. 'Twas in that hour with splendour rife, And on that space of thronging life, Where tents in long and winding chain Rested on bright Vezellay's plain— Within his slight and curtain'd hall Which, as for fairy festival, Uprose upon the verdant moss, His cloak around him careless thrown, A knight, a champion of the cross, Sir Ralph de Graystock sat alone; Lone, save that far beneath the tent, Whose folds their dusky drapery lent To shroud the form that 'neath them bent, Gracefully leaning o'er a lute, His young Greek page stood still and mute. The knight whose mood was wont to be Of old so buoyant, wild, and free, Now look'd as tho' his youth's first dawn, In all its cloudless light were gone: His brow and mien some thought betray'd That o'er his spirit wandering stray'd, Like wayward form of elfin child Which o'er some lawn that late had smil'd, Where lights of brightest summer play'd, Had east his shadow strange and wild. Whate'er it was, perchance some word Scarce utter'd, on his lip had stirr'd, That in his mute companion found A startling echo to the sound— A slight blush pass'd o'er the boy's young cheek, Which never yet of shame might speak; The flush which fear could never know— The soul that trembled on his brow. VI. To chase the gloom his thoughts oppress'd, Sir Ralph his silent page address'd: "Dark is my soul, and darker still The thoughts that rise that soul to fill; Fain would I turn, their mist to quell To those bright strains I love so well— There's scarce a touch of earthly ill, Young Greek! thy tones could not dispell, And now I feel, one battle song, One thrilling melody of thine, Would bear this sullen mood along, And raise a hope with every line— And much I need thy gentle care To chase these visions of despair; No warlike dreams are wafting o'er me, My fathers' deeds grow faint before me: No more their presence rests around, Visions!—once in their glory bound; No longer does each form arise A leading banner to mine eyes. My light of chivalry is flown— With thee, my brave companion! gone; Yet might a strain perchance unwind The links my troubled spirit bind: Then raise,—even as some mountain blast, Whose echoes shall its tone outlast— For me—this galling chain to break, Thy voice of song, my gentle Greek!" VII. "Happy, if such poor skill as mine Can chase those louring clouds away, Swift to thy wish my verse I twine, As o'er the lute my fingers stray. The strain I sing is free and bold, Meet for a minstrel knight to pour— Perchance 'tis one you've known of old, A well-remember'd song of yore: If thus it fall upon thine ear, More welcome still the sound will be— Oh! gladly then, this hour to cheer, I raise my battle-song for thee; Altho' to milder chords alone, And to a softer, gentler tone, My lute I tuned in other days, And strung my harp to other lays." Song. "Away to the battle, young warrior! away! There's a victory to win ere the dawning of day; The sounds of the conflict float far o'er the plain— Then away to the battle, young warrior! again. "Once more take the sword thy brave fathers have worn, And the shield and the gauntlet their brave hands have borne; Let thy banner be streaming more free than the gale, And thy loud battle-cry o'er its music prevail! "Away to the battle, young warrior! away! Give thy might to the combat—thine arm to the fray, That thy soul may be glad when the dark day is done, And thy spirit rejoice in a victory won! "The trumpet is ringing its gladdening strain, And war-steeds are prancing o'er valley and plain; On the hills of thine own land their proud shadows rest, And the heights of thy mountains bear standard and crest. "Then away to the battle, young warrior! away! Midst the sounds of the fight and the conflict—away! Tho' the dawn of to-morrow in darkness be cast, There's a bright stream of glory for thee—to the last!" VIII. The knight arose, and quickly past His darken'd mood away, As fly dusk weeds on ocean cast Before the rushing spray: "It is the song—the very song That Harold lov'd of old, My brother of the battle throng, The generous and bold! Now thanks, my boy! that voice of thine Hath woke a brighter tone in mine; Swift o'er my dim, prophetic sight Visions of joy are glancing bright— Lit by my fancy's torch—I see The conquer'd dastard bend the knee As sinks his false, unknightly spear Before the lance of brave De Vere; Soft plumes are dancing on the wind— Barriers are set—while high in air Gather'd in each pavillion there Are forms in anxious rest reclin'd: 'Tis past!—the slanderer's head is low, And triumph sits on the victor's brow— 'Tis past!—but Oh! farewell my dream! False as the desert's phantom stream— Even while I speak, thy hues are fading, The glories of my slumber shading. Yet shall the trav'ler pause or turn, If dark the path or far the bourne; And shall I from my purpose stray, When honor—freedom points the way? Tamely forego my wrath's intent, By every light wind's malice bent; My helm unclasp'd, and sheath'd my blade, While this foul wrong goes unrepaid?— Forbid it Heaven!—the very steel Would in each olden stain reveal A deep reproof—a stern appeal! And blushing, chide the craven grasp That held it in such feeble clasp. No, Harold! by my knighthood's vow— By this good blade's untarnish'd glow, Upon the sacred sign display'd, And in the gold hilt's radiance laid, I swear to clear thy sullied name, And win thy freedom, or avenge thy fame." IX. True in his heart as on his tongue, The fervent thoughts of honor sprung; And swiftly o'er his face there pass'd Such hues as with the star-light die, That on his brow their splendor cast Or brightly trembled in his eye: Young Amos too, the Grecian child, With gentle looks could well reply, And spirit pure, that wept or smil'd As every changeful thought swept by. There seem'd a mystery flung around him That oft the coming word would stay; A fairy wing, whose spell had bound him And bore the bird-like voice away. Whene'er the knight such mood would chide, And bid him to his ear confide His name and lineage, still he sigh'd And blush'd, and turn'd his head aside; Then starting, closed each strain of joy To sing of some poor captive boy Borne from his own green land afar The victim and the prize of war, Who from his captor's side to stray Went wandering to his home away. Still, when the wayward mood was gone, Some watchful care his pardon won, And Ralph would to his presence turn When forms less calm his soul had borne, And welcome as a voice of peace The footsteps of the child of Greece; For still the boy had much of pow'r To sooth him in his darker hour; That troubled sleep of life to break Where only thoughts of sorrow wake; To raise him all his cares above, And dwelt, a younger brother in his love. X. Night watch'd the page and warrior's sleep, The dawn beheld them on the deep; And many a snowy sail display'd Midst banners of the high Crusade, Far from that now deserted shore The proud wave on its bosom bore. Fair and majestic in their pride The stately ships moved o'er the tide, Free on its paths to roam; While softly from the gliding keel, Like plumage of the wing-borne heel Flutter'd the billowy foam, As around the rippling waters play'd And of their power a mockery made: They gave not up the graves untold— The forms beneath the swift tide roll'd, That, shrouded in the sea-weed's fold, Low in their quiet slept; Nor murmur'd to the passing wind Of many a true heart left behind That o'er their slumber wept. Undimmed by cloud or tempest's frown Wander'd afar the wild wave on; Buoyant as childhood's hour of glee Swept on the breakers of the sea: Verdant and glancing—green and bright The liquid world roll'd onward in its light. XI. Wafted by wind and borne by tide, The proud ships rest on the shore's green side; The shore where blossoms never fade And dew for ever weepeth— Where, on the broad wave's bosom laid The "verdant island" sleepeth; (11) Where vineyards smile for ever fair, And even the sands their blossoms bear; (12) Where plants of every varied hue Gaze unto heaven's eye of blue, Pomegranate's fruit, and poppy's bloom, With oleander's soft perfume; Where float beneath the sighs of morn The golden fields of German corn (13) That rise and fall like heaving seas— "The bending pathways of the breeze." (14) Where every form, and light, and tone Reveals some beauty all its own; Valleys, where crystal streams abound, And mountains with the wild vine crown'd: There—where the south winds gently sigh O'er blooming bowers of Sicily, In all their brilliant splendour, free Sicilian halls look o'er the sea. XII. How many a wayward will we form, And many a blossom rear, That bows before some sudden storm Or falls into the sear! How beautiful the dreams we dream When the slumber hour comes o'er us, 'Till troubled by some morning beam Their splendours fade before us! How oft we strive some rock to o'erthrow Our feebleness may never move; Yet blindly struggle on—nor know The mountains against which we strove! 'Tis not for us when billows play To murmur, 'Pass ye now away;'— 'Tis not for earth, or earthly born, To turn him from the tempest's scorn, The storm to brave, or stem the tide, Or turn the bolt's loud wrath aside— Too soon the gallant vessels rued The unequal course of wind and flood: The Croises now must veil their crest Awhile upon those banks to rest, Resign the land where glory calls For shelter in Messina's halls. XIII. There is a spot of lovely land Within that blooming paradise, Where every hue of sea and strand In gorgeousness and beauty lies; And "fair white walls" are gleaming there, And marble pillars shine, And grassy dells their banquet bear Fill'd with the purple vine: From the fresh green earth a fountain springs, While the ash-trees murmur o'er it, And worship every tear it flings Shedding their wealth before it: Beneath their bending willowy grace, Within that crystal fountain's light, The breathing spirits of the place There sat a lady and a knight. XIV. Their hands were in each other's clasp'd, Their eyes each other's eyes were seeking; And each true soul in silence grasp'd The bliss those eyes were mutely speaking: Tho' deep, they scarce believed it yet, So long it seem'd since they had met Either had much to ask and tell, Yet neither liked to break the spell That bound them as in that sweet sleep From which we do but wake to weep. They deem'd that hour—too bright for earth— Had raised a phantom in their sight, To smile—then flee for ever forth Leaving their souls in deeper night. XV. 'Twas long ere either moved or spoke; Young Edith first the silence broke: "'Tis strange, dear Harold!—but my heart (I know not why) my words would quell, And scarce will let their meaning part From lips that have so much to tell. 'Twas sweet, in days of sorrow gone To share, and make thy griefs my own; And I am more than ever blest To pour my joys upon thy breast. On thee despair shall frown in vain, For life and hope are ours again; And more, far more than all to me The hope that whispers—thou art free— For I have striven for thy fame And pleaded for my Harold's name; I have knelt before the Lion-heart, And ask'd one boon of him for thee— 'Twas but to change thy doom in part, And leave thy sword the rest to free— Ralph—faithful to his vow and thine, Drew near and lent his voice to mine, And knelt—and pleaded by my side— And, Harold!—we were not denied." XVI. "Now blessings rest on thee and thine For ever beautiful and true!— This picture of thy soul, on mine My heart in absence fondly drew; Yet could not paint the hues that rise To light its presence in thine eyes; Or bring that voice, like music, near— Its spell to comfort and to cheer: Tho' faint to this, how far, far more Than all that I could dream before, Yet wanting, these, how much the less Of all thy melting tenderness! Oh! wake once more thy gentle voice That I may listen, and rejoice; And every feeling's lightest tone Shall find an echo in my own." XVII. "I need not say how sad and lone My poor heart grew when thou wert gone, Listening for thy name for ever A banish'd word by fount and river; A dear unutter'd sound to all By lawn and lake—thro' bower and hall. I scarce can tell why this should be, For none had ever doubted thee: Perchance it was in kindness meant To one who wept that name to hear; They little knew how much 'twas blent With every thought, and hope, and fear. How could I roam by Ulle's blue lake, Nor trace thy step through bower and brake? How could I watch the waters glide, Nor dream that thou wert by my side? Or when around me sadly moved The old familiar forms we loved— But I should weary thee to tell The gloom that fell on every brow; And it were less than grateful now Too long upon those griefs to dwell. Save I alone—within our hall Was one who miss'd thee more than all— Thy absence, by my noble brother, Our own dear Ralph, was ne'er forgot; Yet he too strove the thought to smother, As tho' it were remember'd not. XVIII. "At length that weary time was pass'd— There rose a murmur free and far, While flutter'd on the autumn blast The banners of the holy war. With spears Vezellay's plain was throng, And thousands swept its paths along: I stood amidst those spirits wild, A poor and lonely Grecian child. The fears that made my bosom swell, The hopes o'er which I wept and smiled, To none I told—none dared to tell, Of those I could have trusted well;— Not in my father, from whose side I wander'd, had I dared confide, Or to his ear my doubts impart, (So well I read his generous heart,) Lest he should bear a stain for me, And share thy fate in aiding thee. I knew their ocean path would lie First to the shores of Sicily: Tho' weak, what could I have to fear? For I had one protector near— By sea and shore—on land and wave A brother's arm to shield and save. Ralph look'd upon my tender age, And I became my brother's page. Oft have I mark'd his thoughtful eye While yet he knew not who was by; Oft too, in many a broken word That from his struggling spirit came, In joy and silence I have heard Our hopes and purpose were the same. Sometimes it was a weary task My every word and thought to mask, And I have turn'd and blush'd the while, To teach my lip so much of guile; Yet still thro' all one hope it lent— To end or share thy banishment. XIX. "One morn arose—the free winds bore Our royal bark along, And swept us to this verdant shore, This sunny isle of song. That morn I sought my brother's side And told him I was Harold's bride; He took my hand—he could not chide— All save thy welfare was forgot: That very hour we sought the spot Where waved the pilgrim-leader's crest (15) To plead for thee—thou know't the rest. Oh! had you seen his princely eye, The soul and light of chivalry, As with a deep-toned voice he spoke, While on my ear its accents broke: 'And seeks he then his helm to bar In battle with the Delawar? Then be it so—whate'er beside God and the right be on his side.'" (16) XX. "Ha! said he so?—the Delawar— Methinks I knew that name of old, When once in Florence' vales afar, I won this chain of ruddy gold. 'Twas in the tourney's strife we met, I laid him rolling on the plain— He could not see that dim and cold, His lady's eyes with tears were wet, As from her neck this red gold chain She took—and threw the links o'er mine, Which now, sweet love! I place on thine. I mark'd the arrow rankle deep, Yet deem'd not such a causeless hate Would watch for aye, and never sleep, Nor e'er thro' years of time abate. Was it for this the tale he fram'd Of words of treason spoken; Foul words! whose meaning dark proclaim'd My vow'd allegiance broken? Shame on the heart whose hidden fold Such deadly, deep revenge could hold! The craven soul! from whose dark soil The germs of chivalry recoil.— But wherefore do I thus recall The thoughts that at thy coming fled; Tender and true! for ever fall The dews of gladness on thy head— Flower of thy long-deserted hall! How shall my heart—my lip confess One half its gratitude to thee, Whose faintest smile of loveliness Alone had made thy Harold free!" XXI. "Oh! speak not thus!—with thee to dwell Am I not all too much repaid? And feel I not a joy too deep, When thus howe'er I strive to quell My tearful spirit turns to weep? A joy whose least—whose lightest shade, My heart can know, but never tell; To find—for thou art by my side Protector—lover—friend, and guide, All! all in thee!—and for the rest— I am thine own—and I am blest." XXII. Who hath not known in such an hour Feelings—whose bloom must aye remain; Which Time with all his boasted pow'r, Can never quite efface again? When from affection's fount we borrow The cup, another's hand must fill, And, heedless of the drops of sorrow, Quaff deep the draught, and deeper still; When in meek trust, and love profound, Forgetful of a world beside, We raise our shrine on hallow'd ground With one to bless, and none to chide. It may be that a time will come When life shall own a joy the less, And thought forsake its early home, Or turn into forgetfulness: Yet, if some lip's sweet spell is stirr'd— Some voice like that which once we heard, Remembrance! then thy sleep is o'er, The long-lost sound is hush'd no more; Memory claims it for her own— Oblivion's wave gives back the tone. XXIII. The winds grew faint, and ocean's flow Heaved, like a grief which slowly waneth, 'Till on the lately ruffled brow Emotion's trace no more remaineth: Each wave grew gentle as a child, And calm, as if a mother's breast Had mourn'd their course untamed and wild, And sigh'd the waters into rest. A single sail had left the shore, A single bark the ocean bore Above the tide and thro' the breeze— The lonely rider of the seas! Where swell'd the tide,—in storms no more, There gazed a knight the waters o'er; Ralph stood upon the sands alone, Waving on high his battle blade, That they who from those banks had gone Might mark the beams that o'er it play'd, And know that he whose keen steel shone A bright and solitary mark, Still watch'd afar that lonely bark: For on its slowly heaving side Stood Harold and his gentle bride. XXIV. The lists were ranged,—the barriers set, Tho' yet no lance was laid in rest; And o'er the crowds that thronging met Look'd down the Minster of the West. There stood that Abbey's calm repose, And there the Red King's hall arose: (17) Along their walls no sun-beams hover'd Save those which morning's face discover'd, Shadow'd in dimness,—soft and pale Like beauty's through her mourning veil. Mist upon mist its web enwove, As if the fair young sky above, Finding no hope from which to borrow, Had wept, and passed a night of sorrow; And mourning on from dawn to day, Had found her blue eye turn'd to grey. Softly above did the vapour wreath, The gathering crowds roll'd dark beneath, As to and fro they strove to pass— A dense and ever-moving mass. XXV. The lists were set;—another hour And the murmuring crowds give way, Like the rushing waves' retreating pow'r When the swift winds o'er them play: As once of old the stormy sea, They part—and leave a passage free; Space for the hoof's unfetter'd speed— A pathway for the warlike steed. Onward, thro' the parted throng The gallant chargers move along, With every motion's graceful ease Waving their trappings like a breeze. XXVI. Now east and west, at either gate The challenger and challenged wait, Each clothed in panoply of steel, Encased and arm'd from head to heel. Bright on the shield of brave De Vere The mullet shines—the silver star! (18) And where the crosslets cross'd appear, The lion grim of Delawar. (19) Impatience is in either eye, From neither brow the shadows fly; A cloud alike their spirits wear, Yet not the same the thoughts they bear. Wild droops the blood-red plume, and low Where lours the perjured traitor's brow— Soft as the wild swan's wing of light Soars on the breeze the plume of white, That freely floats, and boldly braves The very air through which it waves. XXVII. The oaths are taken—the barriers pass'd— The signal sounds, the first and last; Answering to the wind's low sigh Hark! where the faint breeze bears the cry— "On to the combat!"—forth they fly More eager than a torrent's flow, Swifter than arrow from the bow: Fame is the stake, and hate the brand, Revenge, the grasp of either hand; No fear may damp, no power can blight That moment's world of stern delight: Fierce as the mountain-eagle's strife— Wild as his all-exulting life! XXVIII. Midway they met, with clash and clang, Spears that shiver'd and shields that rang: In vain the strife—their steeds of pride But for an instant swerv'd aside; Scarce was the crimson plume displaced, The silver star but half effaced. Now wheels the steed, nor needs the rein— And turns him to the fight again. Again they met—again they drew The struggling breath, and onward flew— Bear they a life—a weapon—charm'd, That thus they pass unmoved—unharm'd? On swept the hoof o'er the trampled ground, And flew the splinter'd lances round; Again they turn'd, but now no more To combat thus—that strife was o'er. Calm was each brow—each lip compress'd; And still'd awhile each heaving breast: One moment—and their swords they raised, One moment on each other gazed; Then to the ground with one swift bound Both sprang, in hatred strong; Nor murmur'd word, nor sound was heard Through all that silent throng. No thought no act might either know But hate for hate, and blow for blow; Thick fell the strokes, and quick as light Pass'd the good swords from left to right: Already o'er the steel's proud gleam Glides down the blade the purple stream— Already is its dark o'erflowing On gauntlet, helm, and gorget glowing. One well-aimed blow—the last—the best— Floats on the ground the cloven crest; No power that blade's swift might could mar, Down in the dust sank Delawar! XXIX. Now honor to the brave and true! Joy for the noble heart! No more shall life's most precious dew From its summer bloom depart. They reft the spurs from the traitor's heel And broke the false sword o'er him, And with the death-note of the steel Fled the life of fame before him. Lone in some rocky isle, afar, Dwelt the dark soul of Delawar! One, who, unbless'd and shunn'd of all, With name unbreath'd in bower and hall, Without one generous thought to give Could take the dastard's boon—and live. XXX. There was a joy by Ulle's blue water In the halls that long had mourn'd, When to her bower the baron's daughter As from fairy-land return'd. Stern Lyulph stood within his hall With folded arms and lip unmoved; Perchance some dream might there recall Her, his fierce heart so fondly loved: Deep thought was in his silent eye, Dark o'er his brow the shades swept by, The shades of wild and anxious feeling Along his hour of memory stealing; And sometimes to his cheek there came An angry spot—a hue of flame, A fire whose heat was raised in vain, To burn and to be quench'd again— Quench'd by a spell more fond than weak The tear that wither'd on his cheek. XXXI. Hark! where the roof gives back the sound— Some joyous footstep's lightsome bound: True as of old his quick ear caught, That tone with sweet affection fraught; Yet turn'd he from her sight away To hide the gentler feeling's play, Forgiveness! that along his soul Soft as that step's sweet music stole. And she who came—the child of grace!— Back to that lordly dwelling place, In joy that bade all doubt depart, Without a shadow at her heart— She watch'd that eye—averted—cold, Yet could not dream the ire it told: She heeded not that mute and still, With lip that strove but could not chill, Half stern—half kind the mood he kept; She only mark'd his yielding brow, And with a murmur soft and low She fell upon his neck—and wept! XXXII. Ere yet three years his absence mourn'd Ralph from the Holy Land return'd; Rich with the meed of glory won Afar in fields of Ascalon, For deeds that have a mem'ry still By Acre's walls, and Hermon's hill. His lone and pilgrim soul to cheer, He sought the hall of proud De Vere: Within that hall the hearth was glowing, And in the cup the bright wine flowing; Soft music fill'd, like spring, the air; A child's young laugh was ringing there. Oh! who, when rose that joyous strain (20) Could hear, and not be young again? Ralph listened to the sound of joy, And felt once more a careless boy; That touch of memory, even to tears, Recall'd the "days of other years," When on his glee his mother smiled, And he was but a laughing child. There shone—as in his childhood's hour The light of home—the spell of pow'r— There was the mother's smiling eye— The lip, untroubled by a sigh; The face that sparkled in its glee— The boy beside his father's knee. END. Erratum. In the last line but five of the First Canto, for "sleep" read steep. NOTES. NOTES. NOTE 1. Rose Graystock towers.

"This Barony, the Earl of Chester, Ralph de Meschines, gave to one Lyolf, or Lyulphe; and King Henry 1st confirmed the same unto Phorne, Son of Lyulph, whose posterity took their surname from the place, and were called De Graystock."

Bank's Extinct Baronetage. NOTE 2. They were companions in the field.

"There were, as may be seen in St. Palayae and other writers, many voluntary fraternities, consisting sometimes of two only, who were styled 'companions in arms.'"

Brydson's Heraldry. NOTE 3. The upraised point of whose marble blade.

"Those who died in battle on the victorious party, were represented with their swords naked, the point upwards, on the right side, and their shield on the left, their helmets on their heads."

Clark's Heraldry. NOTE 4. Had, captive, sunk to rest.

"Those who died prisoners, were represented on their tombs without spurs, helmet, or sword."

Ibid. NOTE 5. And o'er th' armorial pavement stream'd.

"At what period heraldic devices were introduced, cannot, I believe, be ascertained with precision; but it is probable that when they were carved or painted upon escutcheons, or stained in glass, the floors received them likewise, as a new ornament.

"The use of these painted bricks was confined to consecrated places, almost without exception."

Dallaway's Heraldic Enquiries. NOTE 6. With rich mosaic scrolls was graced.

"The mosaic work, or opus musivum, invented and practised by nations of remoter antiquity than the Romans, was applied to the ornament of floors. Among other reliques of Roman art, are the tessellated pavements, which have been so frequently discovered. The design is generally a series of circles, sometimes diverging from the centre, but rarely connected with it; intermixed with, or enclosing flowers, birds, beasts, and fishes: the whole composed of glazed bricks of a square form, various colours and very diminitive size."

Ibid. NOTE 7. The minstrel sat and wept. "When we, our wearied limbs to rest, Sat down by proud Euphrates' stream, We wept, with doleful thoughts oppress'd, And Sion was our mournful theme: Our harps, that when with joy we sung Were wont their tuneful parts to bear, With silent strings neglected, hung On willow trees that wither'd there." Psalm 137th. NOTE 8. When the bent bow was borne afar.

It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain, by sending messengers in different directions through the land, each bearing a bent bow; and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight."

Cambrian Antiquities. "There was heard the sound of a coming foe; There was sent thro' Britain a bended bow; And a voice was borne on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign of war." F. Hemans. NOTE 9. O'er fair Vezellay's plain.

The first place of rendezvous for the crusading armies of England and France, was the plain of Vezellay, on the borders of Burgundy.

NOTE 10. The red cross and the white.

Menard states, from Hoveden, that at the Crusade, in 1191, the French bore red crosses, the English white, and the people of Flanders green.

NOTE 11. The 'verdant island' sleepeth.

Sicily is called the "Verdant Island."

See Strolberg's Travels. NOTE 12. And even the sands their blossoms bear.

"We passed at one time through fruitful plantations, and at another, along the sandy shore of the sea; which sand itself produces numberless wild plants, particularly the wild poppy and oleander."

Ibid. NOTE 13. The golden fields of German corn.

The rye, so called in Italy and Sicily.

NOTE 14. The bending pathways of the breeze. "Duergi, call the golden leas Bending path-ways of the breeze." Icelandic Poetry; or, the Edda of Saemund. Translated by A. S. Cottle. NOTE 15. Where waved the pilgrim-leader's crest.

"Under the article 'scarf,' in Menard's observations on the history of St. Lewis, is remarked, that the Roman ritual still retains the benedictions employed at the investitures for the Crusades. 'Staves and little baskets were blessed by a new rite.' Instances, also, are adduced of the son of Lewis the Gross receiving the pilgrim's staff at St. Denis; of Philip Augustus receiving a basket, and Richard the 1st, a scrip, together with a staff, from the respective archbishops of Rheims and Tours."

Brydson's Heraldry. NOTE 16. God and the right be on his side.

"Anciently, when one person was accused by another without any further witness than the bare "ipse dixit" of the accuser, the accused party making good his own cause by strongly denying the fact, the matter was then referred to the decision of the sword. If the parties were noble, the king himself was always present at the combat, seated on a scaffold, attended by the Earl Marshall and High Constable of England, who were to see that no undue advantage was taken by either party. The conqueror was then declared innocent, and the vanquished, guilty."

Strutt's Royal and Eccles. Antiq. p. 38. NOTE 17. And there the Red King's hall arose.

William Rufus, or 'the Red,' the founder of Westminster Hall.

NOTE 18. The mullet shines—the silver star.

The arms of De Vere are, quarterly, gules, and or; in the first a mullet argent.

NOTE 19. The lion grim of Delawar.

The arms of Delawar are, gules semée of cross crosslets fitchée, and a lion rampant argent.

NOTE 20. Oh! who, when rose that joyous strain.

"Keep him at least three paces distant, who hates bread, music, and the laugh of a child."

Lavater's Aphorisms. POEMS. Death-Song of the Northern Minstrel. I. I Go!—Valhalla's halls are lit: Enthron'd, the Monoheroes sit. Hark! where the pledges echo round The sparkling mead with foam is crown'd; And voices sweet of song divine Are waiting there this harp of mine. Away! and let my soul go free; Valhalla's halls are lit for me! II. For me the goblet's brim is red; Valhalla's dews are on it shed. When other hands uplift the vine She weeps her purple tears for mine; And mine the lip whose greeting kiss Alone can turn those tears to bliss: High from their gushing fount I see, Valhalla's cup is fill'd for me! III. Within the fields for ever green Our race of Northern Kings are seen: My fathers walk beside the rills Beneath Valhalla's thousand hills. There, where no hoary winter glooms, Eternal spring with summer blooms: Then peace! and let my soul go free, Valhalla's fields are green for me! IV. My harp's wild chords are hush'd and dead: For me Valhalla's wings are spread. The breath that stirs its giant trees Hath pass'd me on the rushing breeze; The murmurs of its pleasant streams Have met me in the land of dreams: Now thro' the rolling mists I flee— Valhalla's wings are spread for me! V. The sounds of wind and wave are still'd; With song Gladsheimer's woods are fill'd: Her graceful boughs Valhalla's tree Waves to the sacred melody. One voice alone of memory blest Hath call'd the minstrel's soul to rest: Those words have set my spirit free— 'Valhalla's harp is strung for thee!' The Crusader's Vow. "How hath my vow been kept?" F. HEMANS. "THEY call'd him by a traitor's name; They said his arm had flung The cross upon the beacon-flame Where the Moslem banner hung; They told me he was gone afar Across the desert sand, With a red and reeking cymetar Within his redder hand. "I heard them name the traitor's name, I heard them, and I swore The footmarks of his perjured shame Should pass those sands no more— I vow'd it by my mother's love, My sister's parting word, And, as its own keen blade should prove, Upon my father's sword. "I breath'd it o'er my father's sword, Beneath the stars of heaven, As I thought of every holy word With my belted knighthood given: I vow'd it by the love of years, Affection's yearning token— A mother's and a sister's tear's, How could such vow be broken? "How could I break the vow I made? I sought him 'neath the skies, Where, in the light that knows no shade, The mighty desert lies: I traced him to a barren spot By the desert's lonely tree, And the winds low murmur stirr'd it not As he fell upon his knee. "He fell upon his bended knee 'Mid the hush'd and silent air, And I heard his spirit singing free In the music of a prayer; I heard him bless some lowly cot Where stood the linden tree;— And I knew his home was unforgot As he fell upon his knee. "He bless'd the humble cottage bower, And humbler roof and floor; The lowliest weed—the lightest flower— He bless'd them o'er and o'er: But most he pray'd for those within By the hearth's more sacred shade, And the little ones beside the lynn In happiness that play'd. "Mine arm grew weak—I heard, and wept For the ruthless vow I'd made, When I thought of the gentle hearts that slept Beneath the linden's shade: I felt a spell on the desert air That my warrior strength defied; And my sword before that mighty prayer Fell powerless by my side. "Mine arm was weak, but not with years, For youth was on my brow— I had often look'd on manhood's tears, Yet never wept till now. My words were nought—my hand was stay'd— I had heard the blessing spoken; And the vow that was by affection made, For affection's sake was broken." The Poet's Farewell "Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of woe and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay! Then sleep in silence ever mair." BURNS. "FAREWELL, thou light and star of song—farewell! Since earth denies a living home with thee, In youth's fair palace by thy side to dwell, 'Midst song and soul outpour'd rejoicingly, Nor soul nor song shall evermore be free:— The riven waters breathe no lasting sound When to the rocks they murmur brokenly;— My spirit lies in woe's firm fetters bound, And life's unnumber'd rocks the stream of song surround. "Farewell! with that one lonely word arise The buried memories of a thousand woes; Words of much sadness, breaths of many sighs, Sorrows of old, and griefs of long repose: Lo! at the sound their ancient tombs unclose Graves, with sweet dews of living tears made green, And moss of years that ever springs and grows; Again they rise, the phantoms long unseen, Nor bring a voice to tell that e'er their graves have been. "Farewell! my harp its joy hath long forgot; Dim are the chords that perish'd not with thee! The land of music where thou comest not Is but a tearful paradise to me; A weeping heav'n from which I fain would flee, But have not yet the pow'r to lift my wings, Or say unto my spirit—thou art free! My lyre's last chord to human sorrow clings Like some lone bird of night that o'er the ruin sings. "Farewell! if I have borne too deep a love, Ne'er in its blissful agony controll'd; If my wild heart too passionately strove In ever-living verse thy name to fold, Long years of woe and penance have I told; The heavy penance of a soul outworn, A heart in earthly weariness grown old: Despair, which is, and ever must be, borne, 'Till life hath no more tears, and love forgets to mourn. "Deep has the struggle been:—but let it pass! A not unmingled harvest have I found; Some golden seeds have flourish'd, tho' alas! Most bitter weeds the better portion bound; And I with both am miserably crown'd: Each mocks the other, and the dark weeds woo Light, warmth, and moisture from the wreaths around; The green leaves turn to their more dusky hue, Warm suns return no more, and falls no second dew. "Farewell!—my glorious visions glide apart, Fleeing th' o'er-fervent spirit of my sight: The films that rise from my o'er-clouded heart Turn light to darkness, and soft days to night. My hairs are fall'n into a sickly white, Deep-burning thought hath blanch'd them into snow; The few that yet retain their hue aright Bear but the shadows of the wings of woe, As o'er the drooping head they wander to and fro. "I've seen my dreams like fairy-waters roll, 'Till nearly left upon the shore alone; Now last and brightest from my thirsting soul The one sweet wave to nothingness hath gone:— The only dream I dared to call my own. For this in wildest agony I strove; To leave an echo tho' my voice were flown, That I, with every trembling chord I wove, In death might win thy praise, that lived not in thy love. "Farewell!—to one and all a last farewell! The gift which bore me as a breeze along, Life, love, and thee the deep and hidden well, The inspiration and the soul of song; My glorious dreams!—a dim and countless throng, Visions and phantoms of life's dreary night, Strains, whose sweet breath I may no more prolong:— A veil hath fall'n o'er all that once was bright, Love's meek and lowly trust, and music's wild delight. "Vain is the ocean of my tears to steep, The grief which will not thus be wept away; 'Tis not for me to sigh it into sleep, Sighs are its growth, and tears bring no decay:— I have no kindred breast whereon to lay The burthen of my sorrow down, or pour One little show'r from my o'er-clouded day: Tears may find sleep, nor sighs' soft dreams be o'er, But memory's self will wake, to slumber nevermore. "Farewell my harp!—farewell my earthly love! And still farewell to love and song in thee! Thou who first raised my spirit's gaze above— Whose sweet voice woke rich melodies for me: Fain to thy glorious presence would I flee; My home is dreary, but where thou dost dwell Nor bursting hearts, nor broken chords may be.— Lo! with thy name my last wild numbers swell: Free soul of love and song, for evermore farewell!" FINIS. Walton and Mitchell, Printers, 24, Wardour-street, Oxford-street.