THE

BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

CANTO FIRST.

I.

WHERE is the Maiden of mortal strain,

That

may

match with the Baron of Triermain !!

She must be lovely, and constant, and kind,

Holy and pure, and humble of mind,

Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood,
Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood-

Triermain was a fief of the Barony of Gilsland, in Cumberland; it was possessed by a Saxon family at the time of the Conquest, but, "after the death of Gilmore, Lord of Tryermaine and Torcrossock, Hubert Vaux gave Tryermaine and Torcrossock to his second son, Ranulph Vaux; which Ranulph afterwards became heir to his elder brother Robert, the founder of Lanercost, who died without issue. Ranulph, being Lord of all Gilsland, gave Gilmore's lands to his own younger son, named Roland, and let the Barony descend to his eldest son Robert, son of Ranulph. Roland had issue Alexander, and he Ranulph, after whom succeeded Robert, and they were named Rolands successively, that were lords thereof, until the reign of Edward the Fourth. That house gave for arms, Vert a bend dexter, chequy, or, and gules.” -BURN's Antiquities of Westmoreland and Cumberland, vol. ii. p. 482. See Appendix, Note A.

Lovely as the sun's first ray,

When it breaks the clouds of an April day;
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 dies,

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 of the noblest Plantagenet-

Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain,
That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain.

II.

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep,
His blood it was fever'd, his breathing was deep.
He had been pricking against the Scot,
The foray was long, and the skirmish hot;
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 best,
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 gray,
That like a silvery crape was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head,
And faintly gleam'd each painted pane
Of the lordly halls of Triermain,

When that Baron bold awoke.
Starting he woke, and loudly did call,
Rousing his menials in bower and hall,
While hastily he spoke.

IV.

"Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye Touch'd his harp with that dying fall. So sweet, so soft, so faint,

It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call

Το

an expiring saint?

all

And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where

Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, And her graceful step and her angel air, And the eagle plume in her dark-brown hair, That pass'd from my bower e'en now!"

V.

Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he
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."

VI.

"Then come thou hither, Henry, my page,
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage,
When that dark castle, tower, and spire,
Rose to the skies a pile of fire,

And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill,
And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke
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 reign,

And ride to Lyulph's tower, And from the Baron of Triermain

He is

Greet well that Sage. of power.
sprung from Druid sires,

And British bards that tun'd their lyres
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise,
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.1
Gifted like his gifted race,

He the characters can trace,
Graven deep in elder time
Upon Hellvellyn'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 course of stars.
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,

Or fading tints of western skies. 2
For, by the blessed rood I swear,
If that fair form breathe vital air,

1 Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes from Cumberland into Westmoreland. It takes its name from a cairn, or pile of stones, erected, it is said, to the memory of Dunmail, the last King of Cumberlaud.

2 ["Just like Aurora when she ties
A rainbow round the morning skies."

VOL. XI.

MOORE.]