The summer-clouds so plain we note,
That we might count each dappled spot:
We gaze and we admire, yet know
The scene is all delusive show.

Such dreams of bliss' would Arthur draw,
When first his Lucy's form he saw;
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew,
Despairing they could ere prove true!

III.

But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view
Up the fair glen, our destined way:
The fairy path that we pursue,
Distinguish'd but by greener hue,

Winds round the purple brae,
While Alpine flowers of varied dye
For carpet serve, or tapestry.
See how the little runnels leap,
In threads of silver, down the steep,

To swell the brooklet's moan! Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves, Fantastic while her crown she weaves, Of rowan, birch, and alder leaves,

So lovely, and so lone.

There's no illusion there; these flowers,
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers,
Are, Lucy, all our own;

And, since thine Arthur call'd thee wife,
Such seems the prospect of his life,
A lovely path, on-winding still,
By gurgling brook and sloping hill.
"Tis true, that mortals cannot tell
What waits them in the distant dell;
But be it hap, or be it harm,

We tread the pathway arm in arm.

IV.

And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why
I could thy bidding twice deny,
When twice you pray'd I would again
Resume the legendary strain
Of the bold knight of Triermain ?

At length yon peevish vow you swore,
That you would sue to me no more,2
Until the minstrel fit drew near,
And made me prize a listening ear.
But, loveliest, when thou first didst pray
Continuance of the knightly lay,
Was it not on the happy day

That made thy hand mine own?
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy,
Nought past, or present, or to be,
Could I or think on, hear, or see,

Save, Lucy, thee alone!

A giddy draught my rapture was,
As ever chemist's magic gas.

V.

Again the summons I denied
In yon fair capital of Clyde :
My Harp-or let me rather choose
The good old classic form-my Muse,
(For Harp's an over-scutched phrase,
Worn out by bards of modern days,)
My Muse, then-seldom will she wake,
Save by dim wood and silent lake;
She is the wild and rustic Maid,
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread
Where the soft greensward is inlaid
With varied moss and thyme ;
And, lest the simple lily-braid,
That coronets her temples, fade,
She hides her still in greenwood shade,
To meditate her rhyme.

VI.

And now she comes! The murmur dear
Of the wild brook hath caught her ear,
The glade hath won her eye;
She longs to join with each blith rill
That dances down the Highland hill,
Her blither melody.3

And now, my Lucy's way to cheer,
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear
How closed the tale, my love whilere

Loved for its chivalry.

List how she tells, in notes of flame, "Child Roland to the dark tower came !"

The Bridal of Triermain.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

BEWCASTLE NOW must keep the Hold,
Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in stall,
Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold
Must only shoot from battled wall;
And Liddesdale may buckle spur,

And Teviot now may belt the brand, Taras and Ewes keep nightly stir,

And Eskdale foray Cumberland.
Of wasted fields and plundered flocks

The Borderers bootless may complain;
They lack the sword of brave de Vaux,
There comes no aid from Triermain.
That lord, on high adventure bound,
Hath wander'd forth alone,
And day and night keeps watchful round
In the valley of Saint John.

1 MS.-" Scenes of bliss."

MS.-"Until yon peevish oath you swore That you would sue for it no more."

8 MS. Her wild-wood melody."

4 The MS. has not this couplet.

II.

When first began his vigil bold,
The moon twelve summer nights was old,
And shone both fair and full;
High in the vault of cloudless blue,
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw
Her light composed and cool.
Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy breast,

Sir Roland eyed the vale;
Chief where, distinguish'd from the rest,
Those clustering rocks uprear'd their crest,
The dwelling of the fair distress'd,

As told grey Lyulph's tale.
Thus as he lay, the lamp of night
Was quivering on his armour bright,
In beams that rose and fell,
And danced upon his buckler's boss,
That lay beside him on the moss,
As on a crystal well.

III.

Ever he watch'd, and oft he deem'd,

While on the mound the moonlight stream'd,

It alter'd to his eyes;

Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, Fain think, by transmutation strange,

He saw grey turrets rise.

But scarce his heart with hope throb'd high, Before the wild illusions fly,

Which fancy had conceived, Abetted by an anxious eye

That long'd to be deceived.

It was a fond deception all,
Such as, in solitary hall,

Beguiles the musing eye,
When, gazing on the sinking fire,
Bulwark, and battlement, and spire,

In the red gulf we spy.

For, seen by moon of middle night,
Or by the blaze of noontide bright,
Or by the dawn of morning light,
Or evening's western flame,

In every tide, at every hour,
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower,
The rocks remain'd the same.

IV.

Oft has he traced the charmed mound,
Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round,
Yet nothing might explore,

Save that the crags so rudely piled,
At distance seen, resemblance wild
To a rough fortress bore.

Yet still his watch the Warrior keeps,
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps,

And drinks but of the well;
Ever by day he walks the hill,
And when the evening gale is chill,
He seeks a rocky cell,

Like hermit poor to bid his bead,
And tell his Ave and his Creed,
Invoking every saint at need,
For aid to burst his spell.

4.

And now the moon her orb has hid,
And dwindled to a silver thread,

Dim seen in middle heaven,
While o'er its curve careering fast,
Before the fury of the blast

The midnight clouds are driven. The brooklet raved, for on the hills The upland showers had swoln the rills, And down the torrents came ; Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, And frequent o'er the vale was spread A sheet of lightning flame.

De Vaux, within his mountain cave, (No human step the storm durst brave,) To moody meditation gave

Each faculty of soul,1

Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound, And the sad winds that whistled round, Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, A broken slumber stole.

VI.

"Twas then was heard a heavy sound,

(Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer :) As, starting from his couch of fern,2 Again he heard in clangor stern,

That deep and solemn swell,

Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke,
Like some proud minister's pealing clock,
Or city's larum-bell.

What thought was Roland's first when feil,
In that deep wilderness, the knell
Upon his startled ear?

To slander warrior were I loth,
Yet must I hold my minstrel troth,-
It was a thought of fear.

VII.

But lively was the mingled thrill
That chased that momentary chill,

For Love's keen wish was there,
And eager Hope, and Valour high,
And the proud glow of Chivalry,
That burn'd to do and dare.

1 MS.-"His faculties of soul."

MS.

his couch of rock, Again upon his ear it broke."

Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd,
Long ere the mountain-voice' was hush'd,
That answer'd to the knell ;
For long and far the unwonted sound,
Eddying in echoes round and round,
Was toss'd from fell to fell;
And Glaramara answer flung,
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung,

And Legbert heights their echoes swung,
As far as Derwent's dell. 2

VIII.

Forth upon trackless darkness gazed
The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed,
Till all was hush'd and still,
Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar,
And the night-blast that wildly bore
Its course along the hill.

Then on the northern sky there came
A light, as of reflected flame,

And over Legbert-head,
As if by magic art controll'd,
A mighty meteor slowly roll'd
Its orb of fiery red;

Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire
Came mounted on that car of fire,

To do his errant dread.
Far on the sloping valley's course,
On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse,
Shingle and Scrae, and Fell and Force,1

A dusky light arose :

Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene;
Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen,
Even the gay thicket's summer green,
In bloody tincture glows.

2 The rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the lady's voice, and laugh'd agaia;
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag
Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar,
And the tall steep of Silver-How, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone;
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the lady's voice,-old Skiddaw blew
His speaking-trumpet ;-back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head."

WORDSWORTH.

But only sees, by night or day,
That shatter'd pile of rocks so grey,

Hears but the torrent's roar.

Till when, through hills of azure borne,1
The moon renew'd her silver horn,
Just at the time her waning ray
Had faded in the dawning day,

A summer mist arose ;
Adown the vale the vapours float,
And cloudy undulations moat
That tufted mound of mystic note,

As round its base they close.
And higher now the fleecy tide
Ascends its stern and shaggy side,
Until the airy billows hide3

The rock's majestic isle;
It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn,
By some fantastic fairy drawn 4
Around enchanted pile.

XII.

The breeze came softly down the brook,"
And, sighing as it blew,
The veil of silver mist it shook,
And to De Vaux's eager look

Renew'd that wondrous view.

For, though the loitering vapour braved The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved

Its mantle's dewy fold;

And still, when shook that filmy screen, Were towers and bastions dimly seen, And Gothic battlements between

Their gloomy length unroll'd." Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye Once more the fleeting vision die !

-The gallant knight 'gan speed

As prompt and light as, when the hound
Is opening, and the horn is wound,

Careers the hunter's steed.
Down the steep dell his course amain
Hath rivall'd archer's shaft ;

But ere the mound he could attain,
The rocks their shapeless form regain,
And, mocking loud his labour vain,
The mountain spirits laugh'd.
Far up the echoing dell was born
Their wild unearthly shout of scorn.

XIII.

Wroth wax'd the Warrior.-" Am I then
Fool'd by the enemies of men,

Like a poor hind, whose homeward way
Is haunted by malicious fay?

Is Triermain become your taunt,

De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, avaunt !"
A weighty curtal-axe he bare;

The baleful blade so bright and square,
And the tough shaft of heben wood,
Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued.
Backward his stately form he drew,
And at the rocks the weapon threw,
Just where one crag's projected crest
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest.
Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's
shock

Rent a huge fragment of the rock.
If by mere strength, 'twere hard to tell,
Or if the blow disolved some spell,
But down the headlong ruin came,
With cloud of dust and flash of flame.
Down bank, o'er bush, its course was borne,
Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was torn,
Till staid at length, the ruin dread
Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed,
And bade the waters' high-swoln tide
Seek other passage for its pride. 8

XIV.

When ceased that thunder, Triermain
Survey'd the mound's rude front again;
An, lo! the ruin had laid bared,
Hewn in the stone, a winding stair,

1 MS." But when, through fields of azure borne."

2 MS.-" And with their eddying billows moat."

3 MS. Until the mist's grey bosom hide."

4 MS. a veil of airy lawn."

5" A sharp frost wind, which made itself heard, and felt from time to time, removed the clouds of mist which might otherwise have slumbered till morning on the valley; and, though it could not totally disperse the clouds of vapour, yet threw them in confused and changeful masses, now hovering round the heads of the mountains, now filling, as with a dense and voluminous stream of smoke, the various deep gullies where masses of the composite rock, or brescia, tumbling in fragments from the cliffs, have rushed to the valley, leaving each behind its course a rent and torn ravine, resembling a deserted water-course. The moon which was now high, and twinkled with all the vivacity of a frosty atmosphere, silvered the windings of the river, and the peaks and precipices which the mist left visible, while her beams seemed,

as it were, absorbed by the fleecy whiteness of the mist, where it lay thick and condensed, and gave to the more light and vapoury specks, which where elsewhere visible, a sort of filmy transparency resembling the lightest veil of silver gauze.”— Waverley Novels-Rob Roy-vol. viii. p. 267.

The praise of truth, precision, and distinctness, is not very frequently combined with that of extensive magnificence and splend d complication of imagery; yet how masterly, and often sublime is the panoramic display, in all these works, of vast and diversified scenery, and of crowded and tumultuous action," &c.—Adolphus, p. 163.

mer and autumnal moon, is described with an aërial touch te 6"The scenery of the valley, seen by the light of the sumwhich we cannot do justice.”—Quarterly Leview.

7 MS." Is wilder'd."

8 MS. And bade its waters, in their pride, Seek other current for their tide."

Whose moss'd and fractnred steps might lend

He said; the wicket felt the sway

The means the summit to ascend; And by whose aid the brave De Vaux Began to scale these magic rocks,

And soon a platform won, Where, the wild witchery to close, Within three lances' length arose

The Castle of Saint John ! No misty phantom of the air, No meteor-blazon'd show was there; In morning splendour, full and fair, The massive fortress shone.

XV.

Embattled high and proudly tower'd,
Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lower'd
The portal's gloomy way.

Though for six hundred years and more,
Its strength had brook'd the tempest's roar,
The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore
Had suffer'd no decay :

But from the eastern battlement
A turret had made sheer descent,
And, down in recent ruin rent,

In the mid torrent lay.

Else, o'er the Castle's brow sublime,
Insults of violence or of time

Unfelt had pass'd away.

In shapeless characters of yore,
The gate this stern inscription bore :--

XVI.

Inscription.

"Patience waits the destined day,
Strength can clear the cumber'd way.
Warrior, who hast waited long,
Firm of soul, of sinew strong,
It is given thee to gaze

On the pile of ancient days.
Never mortal builder's hand
This enduring fabric plann'd ;
Sign and sigil, word of power,
From the earth raised keep and tower.
View it o'er, and pace it round,
Rampart, turret, battled mound.
Dare no more! To cross the gate
Were to tamper with thy fate;
Strength and fortitude were vain,
View it o'er-and turn again."—

XVII.

"That would I," said the Warrior bold, "If that my frame were bent and old, And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold As icicle in thaw;

But while my heart can feel it dance, Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, And this good arm wields sword or lance, I mock these words of awe!"

Of his strong hand, and straight gave way,
And, with rude crash and jarring bray,

The rusty bolts withdraw;
But o'er the threshold as he strode,
And forward took the vaulted road,
An unseen arm, with force amain,
The ponderous gate flung close again,
And rusted bolt and bar
Spontaneous took their place ouce more,
While the deep arch with sullen roar
Return'd their surly jar.

"Now closed is the gin and the prey within By the Rood of Lanercost!

But he that would win the war-wolf's skin,
May rue him of his boast."

Thus muttering, on the Warrior went,
By dubious light down steep descent.

XVIII.

Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port
Led to the Castle's outer court:
There the main fortress, broad and tall,
Spread its long range of bower and hall,
And towers of varied size,
Wrought with each ornament extreme,
That Gothic art, in wildest dream

Of fancy, could devise ;

But full between the Warrior's way
And the main portal arch, there lay
An inner moat ;

Nor bridge nor boat
Affords De Vaux the means to cross
The clear, profound, and silent fosse.
His arms aside in haste he flings,
Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings,
And down falls helm, and down the shield,
Rough with the dints of many a field.
Fair was his manly form, and fair
His keen dark eye, and close curl'd hair,
When, all unarm'd, save that the brand
Of well-proved metal graced his hand,
With nought to fence his dauntless breast
But the close gipon's1 under-vest,
Whose sullied buff the sable stains
Of hauberk and of mail retains,-
Roland De Vaux upon the brim
Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim.

XIX.

Accoutred thus he dared the tide,
And soon he reach'd the farther side,
And enter'd soon the Hold,
And paced a hall, whose walls so wide
Were blazon'd all with feats of pride,
By warrior's done of old.

In middle lists they counter'd here,

1 A sort of doublet, worn beneath the amour