O teach him, while your lessons last,

To judge the present by the past;
Remind him of each wish pursued,

How rich it glow'd with promised good;
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd,

How soon his hopes possession cloy'd!
Tell him, we play unequal game,

Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim;
And, ere he strip him for her race,

Shew the conditions of the chase.
Two Sisters by the goal are set,
Cold Disappointment and Regret ;
One disenchants the winner's eyes,
And strips of all its worth the prize,
While one augments its gaudy show,
More to enhance the loser's woe.

The victor sees his fairy gold,
Transform'd, when won, to drossy mold,

But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss, And rues, as gold, that glittering dross.

XXXII.

More would'st thou know-yon tower survey,

Yon couch unpress'd since parting day,
Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow gleam
Is mingling with the cold moon-beam,
And yon thin form!-the hectic red
On his pale cheek unequal spread ;
The head reclined, the loosen'd hair,
The limbs relax'd, the mournful air.—
See, he looks up;-a woeful smile
Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while,-
'Tis fancy wakes some idle thought,
To gild the ruin she has wrought;
For, like the bat of Indian brakes,

Her pinions fan the wound she makes,
And soothing thus the dreamer's pain,
She drinks his life-blood from the vein.

Now to the lattice turn his eyes,

Vain hope to see the sun arise.

The moon with clouds is still o'ercast,

Still howls by fits the stormy blast;

Another hour must wear away,

Ere the East kindle into day,

And hark! to waste that weary hour,

He tries the minstrel's magic power.

XXXIII.

SONG.

TO THE MOON.

Hail to thy cold and clouded beam,

Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky!

Hail, though the mists that o'er thee stream
Lend to thy brow their sullen dye !
How should thy pure and peaceful eye

Untroubled view our scenes below,

Or how a tearless beam supply

To light a world of war and woe!

Fair Queen! I will not blame thee now,
As once by Greta's fairy side;

Each little cloud that dimm'd thy brow

Did then an angel's beauty hide.

And of the shades I then could chide,

Still are the thoughts to memory dear,

For, while a softer strain I tried,

They hid my blush, and calm'd my fear.

Then did I swear thy ray serene

Was form'd to light some lonely dell,

By two fond lovers only seen,
Reflected from the crystal well,

Or sleeping on their mossy cell,
Or quivering on the lattice bright,

Or glancing on their couch, to tell

How swiftly wanes the summer night!

XXXIV.

He starts-a step at this lone hour!

A voice!-his father seeks the tower,

With haggard look and troubled sense,
Fresh from his dreadful conference.

"Wilfrid !what, not to sleep address'd?

Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest.

Mortham has fallen on Marston-moor;

Bertram brings warrant to secure

His treasures, bought by spoil and blood,

For the state's use and public good.

The menials will thy voice obey;

Let his commission have its way,

In every point, in

every word."____

Then, in a whisper,-" Take thy sword!

Bertram is-what I must not tell.

I hear his hasty step-farewell!”

END OF CANTO FIRST.