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Which, filling, consecrates the human breast.
And if the Motto on thy 'scutcheon teach
That searching test thy public course has stood;
As will be owned alike by bad and good,
Soon as the measuring of life's little span
Shall place thy virtues out of Envy's reach.*



LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower†
At eve; how softly then
Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse,
Speak from the woody glen!

Fit music for a solemn vale!

And holier seems the ground
To him who catches on the gale
The spirit of a mournful tale,
Embodied in the sound.

Not far from that fair site whereon
The Pleasure-house is reared,

* See Note.

† A pleasure-house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. FORCE is the word used in the Lake District for Waterfall.

As story says, in antique days

A stern-browed house appeared;
Foil to a Jewel rich in light

There set, and guarded well;
Cage for a Bird of plumage bright,
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight
Beyond her native dell.

To win this bright Bird from her cage,
To make this Gem their own,
Came Barons bold, with store of gold,
And Knights of high renown;
But one she prized, and only one;
Sir Eglamore was he;

Full happy season, when was known,
Ye Dales and Hills! to you alone,
Their mutual loyalty, —

Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen,
Thy brook, and bowers of holly;
Where Passion caught what Nature taught,
That all but love is folly;

Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play;

Doubt came not, nor regret,

To trouble hours that winged their way,
As if through an immortal day

Whose sun could never set.

But in old times Love dwelt not long
Sequestered with repose;

Best throve the fire of chaste desire,
Fanned by the breath of foes.
"A conquering lance is beauty's test,
And proves the Lover true";
So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed
The drooping Emma to his breast,
And looked a blind adieu.

They parted.

- Well with him it fared

Through wide-spread regions errant ;

A knight of proof in love's behoof,

The thirst of fame his warrant:

And she her happiness can build
On woman's quiet hours;

Though faint, compared with spear and shield,
The solace beads and masses yield,

And needlework and flowers.

Yet blest was Emma when she heard

Her Champion's praise recounted; Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim,

And high her blushes mounted;

Or when a bold heroic lay

She warbled from full heart; Delightful blossoms for the May

Of absence! but they will not stay,

Born only to depart.

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills

Whatever path he chooses;

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,

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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;

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