As if his orb, that owns no curb,
Received the light hers loses.

He comes not back; an ampler space
Requires for nobler deeds;

He ranges on from place to place,

Till of his doings is no trace,

But what her fancy breeds.

His fame may spread, but in the past
Her spirit finds its centre;
Clear sight she has of what he was,

And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted Knight?"

The tear in answer flows;

Month falls on month with heavier weight;
Day sickens round her, and the night
Is empty of repose.

In sleep she sometimes walked abroad,
Deep sighs with quick words blending,
Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen

With fancied spots contending;

But she is innocent of blood,—

The moon is not more pure

That shines aloft, while through the wood

She thrids her way, the sounding Flood
Her melancholy lure!

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,

In white arrayed, glides on the Maid,
The downward pathway taking,
That leads her to the torrent's side
And to a holly bower;

By whom on this still night descried?
By whom in that lone place espied?
By thee, Sir Eglamore!

A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight,
His coming step has thwarted,
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted.
Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see!
Perplexed her fingers seem,

As if they from the holly-tree
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly
Flung from her to the stream.

What means the Spectre? Why intent To violate the Tree,

Thought Eglamore, by which I swore

Unfading constancy

Here am I, and to-morrow's sun
To her I left shall prove
That bliss is ne'er so surely won,

As when a circuit has been run
Of valor, truth, and love.

So from the spot whereon he stood
He moved with stealthy pace;

And, drawing nigh, with his living eye,
He recognized the face;

And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some muttered to the torrent-fall;

"Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may he!"

Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew

If Emma's Ghost it were,

Or boding Shade, or if the Maid
Her very self stood there.

He touched; what followed who shall tell?

The soft touch snapped the thread

Of slumber, shrieking back she fell,

And the Stream whirled her down the dell

Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the Knight!

The rescued Maiden lay,

when on firm ground

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,

Confusion passed away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace
Her faithful Spirit flew,

His voice, beheld his speaking face;

And, dying from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.

So was he reconciled to life:

Brief words may speak the rest:

Within the dell he built a cell,
And there was Sorrow's guest;
In hermit's weeds repose he found,
From vain temptations free;

Beside the torrent dwelling, — bound

By one deep, heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,

Nor fear memorial lays,

Where clouds that spread in solemn shade
Are edged with golden rays!

Dear art thou to the light of heaven,

Though minister of sorrow;

Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ;
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven,

Shalt take thy place with Yarrow !

1833.

XLVII.

TO CORDELIA M

Hallsteads, Ullswater.

Not in the mines beyond the western main,
You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought,
Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought

Into this flexible yet faithful Chain ;

Nor is it silver of romantic Spain;

But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was brought,

Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought
Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain,
Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being:
Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord,
What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing,
Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord,
For precious tremblings in your bosom found!

XLVIII.

MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.