They parted. Well with him it fared. The thirst of fame his warrant: Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield, And needlework and flowers. Yet blest was Emma when she heard Or when a bold heroic lay She warbled from full heart; Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills He ranges on from place to place, But what her fancy breeds. His fame may spread, but in the past 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; 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 doo, In white arrayed, glides on the Maid By whom on this still night descried ? A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, Within whose shade they parted. Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see! Perplexed her fingers seem, What means the Spectre? Why intent Thought Eglamore, by which I swore, Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, That bliss is ne'er so surely won So from the spot whereon he stood, And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, And whispers caught, and speeches small, "Roar on, and bring him with thy call; Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew If Emma's Ghost it were, He touched; what followed who shall tell? Of slumber-shrieking back she fell, And the Stream whirled her down the dell Along its foaming bed. In plunged the Knight!-when on firm ground The rescued Maiden lay, 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; So was he reconciled to life: Brief words may speak the rest; 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, Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ; 1833, XLVII. TO CORDELIA M HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER. Nor in the mines beyond the western main, Nor is it silver of romantic Spain But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was brought, XLVIII. Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes |