He staid not for brake, and he stopped not That never a hall such a galliard did grace; for stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochin var. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, While her mother did fret and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. |So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young wine; Lochinvar ? SIR WALTER SCOTT. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, I've heard you say on many a day, and sure And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. JOHN KEATS. THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. "RISE up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpets' lordly blowing, And banners bright from lattice light are waving every where, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! "Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's faceHe bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace; Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadelquiver Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with white, I guess 't was wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! What aileth thee, Xarifa-what makes thine eyes look down? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town? you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's youth: Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow : Then rise-O! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town!" "Why rise ye not, Xarifa-nor lay your cushion down Why gaze ye not, Xarifa—with all the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry; He stops at Zara's palace-gate-why sit ye still—O, why?" -"At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover? I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing THE DAY-DREAM. THE SLEEPING PALACE. THE DAY-DREAM. THE varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and re-clothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf; Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Soft lustre bathes the range of urns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. The parrot in his gilded wires. More like a picture seemeth all, Here sits the butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task; The maid-of-honor blooming fair, The page has caught her hand in his; Her lips are severed as to speak; His own are pouted to a kiss; The blush is fixed upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that through the oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimmed with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps; Grave faces gathered in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps: He must have been a jolly king. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows And grapes with bunches red as blood; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen, High up, the topmost palace-spire. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in their place remain, As all were ordered, ages since. Come Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince! THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. YEAR after year unto her feet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown; On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl; The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. The silk star-broidered coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever; and, amid 227 Her full black ringlets, downward rolled, Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm, With bracelets of the diamond bright. Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps; her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirred That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps; on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest; She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL. ALL precious things, discovered late, His mantle glitters on the rocks--- And lighter-footed than the fox. LOVE IN THE VALLEY. Often she thinks-were this wild thing wedded, I should have more love, and much less care. UNDER yonder beech-tree standing on the When her mother tends her before the bash green sward, Couched with her arms behind her little head, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded ful mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks-were this wild thing wedded, I should lose but one for so many boys and girls. Clambering roses peep into her chamber; Waking on the instant she could not but em- Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet, brace me Ah! would she hold me, and never let me go? Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow; White-necked swallows, twittering of sum mer, Fill her with balm and nested peace from head to feet. Ah! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely, Swift as the swallow when athwart the west- When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on ern flood the leaves? Circleting the surface he meets his mirrored Will the Autumn garners see her still un winglets Is that dear one in her maiden bud. Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine tops; gathered, When the fickle swallows forsake the weeping eaves? Gentle-ah! that she were jealous-as the Comes a sudden question-should a strange dove! hand pluck her! Full of all the wildness of the woodland crea-O! what an anguish smites me at the thought! tures, Should some idle lordling bribe her mind with jewels! Happy in herself is the maiden that I love! Can such beauty ever thus be bought? What can have taught her distrust of all I tell Sometimes the huntsmen prancing down the her? valley Can she truly doubt me when looking on my Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth; Show the bridal heavens but one bright star? Whispering together beneath the listening Wherefore thus then do I chase a shadow, Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar? moon, I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till So I rhyme and reason till she darts before she faltered me Fluttered to my bosom-ah! to fly away so Through the milky meadows from flower to When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face | Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the gazes violet! Out on the weather through the window Come, weeping Loveliness in all thy blue panes, delight! Beauteous she looks! like a white water-lily Lo! the nest is ready, let me not languish Bursting out of bud on the rippled river plains. When from bed she rises clothed from neck In her long night gown, sweet as boughs of Beauteous she looks! like a tall garden lily Happy, happy time, when the gray star twinkles Over the fields all fresh with bloomy dew; When the cold-cheeked Dawn grows ruddy up the twilight, And the gold Sun wakes and weds her in the blue. Then when my darling tempts the early breezes, She the only star that dies not with the dark! sion, I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. longer! Bring her to my arms on the first May night. GEORGE MEREDITH. LADY CLARE. LORD RONALD courted Lady Clare, I trow they did not part in scorn; Nor for my lands so broad and fair; And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me." "O God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Shall the birds in vain then valentine their Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, sweethearts? Season after season tell a fruitless tale? Will not the virgin listen to their voices? Take the honeyed meaning, wear the bridal veil? Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare branches? Waits she the garlands of Spring for her dower? Is she a nightingale that will not be nested Till the April woodland has built her bridal bower? Then come, merry April, with all thy birds and beauties! With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery glee; And you are not the Lady Clare." "Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child. "The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; O mother," she said, "if this be true, With thy budding leafage and fresh green "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And may thy lustrous crescent grow a hon- And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, pastures; eymoon for me! When you are man and wife." |