Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.

Many a fathom dark and deep
I have laid the book to sleep;
Ethereal fires around it glowing -
Ethereal music ever flowing-
The sacred pledge of Heaven
All things revere,
Each in his sphere,

Save man for whom 't was given: Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy Things ne'er seen by mortal eye.

Fearest thou to go with me?
Still it is free to thee

A peasant to dwell;

Thou may'st drive the dull steer,
And chase the king's deer,
But never more come near
This haunted well.

Here lies the volume thou hast boldly sought;

Touch it, and take it, 't will dearly be bought.

Rash thy deed,

Mortal weed

To immortal flames applying;
Rasher trust

Has thing of dust,

On his own weak worth relying: Strip thee of such fences vain, Strip, and prove thy luck again.

Mortal warp and mortal woof
Cannot brook this charmed roof;
All that mortal art hath wrought
In our cell returns to nought.
The molten gold returns to clay,
The polished diamond melts away;
All is altered, all is flown,

Nought stands fast but truth alone.

Not for that thy quest give o'er:

Courage! prove thy chance once more.

Alas! alas!

Not ours the grace

These holy characters to trace:
Idle forms of painted air,
Not to us is given to share
The boon bestowed on Adam's race.
With patience bide,
Heaven will provide

The fitting time, the fitting guide.

VII

TO THE SAME

From Chapter xvii. She spoke, and her speech was still song, or rather measured chant; but, as if now more familiar, it flowed occasionally in modulated blank verse, and, at other times, in the lyrical measure which she had used at their former meeting.'

THIS is the day when the fairy kind
Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot,
And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing
wind,

And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal grot;

For this is a day that the deed was wrought,

In which we have neither part nor share, For the children of clay was salvation bought,

But not for the forms of sea or air!
And ever the mortal is most forlorn,
Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn

Daring youth for thee it is well,
Here calling me in haunted dell,
That thy heart has not quailed,
Nor thy courage failed,

And that thou couldst brook
The angry look
Of Her of Avenel.
Did one limb shiver,
Or an eyelid quiver,

Thou wert lost for ever.

Though I am formed from the ether

blue,

And my blood is of the unfallen dew,

The Word, the Law, the Path which thou dost strive

To find, and canst not find. Could Spirits shed

Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep,

Showing the road which I shall never tread,

Though my foot points it. Sleep, eternal sleep,

Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot! But do not thon at human ills repine; Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot For all the woes that wait frail Adam's line

Stoop then and make it yours, —I may

not make it mine!

ΧΙ

THE WHITE LADY'S FAREWELL

From Chapter xxxvii.

FARE thee well, thou Holly green!
Thou shalt seldom now be seen,
With all thy glittering garlands bending,
As to greet my slow descending,
Startling the bewildered hind,
Who sees thee wave without a wind.

Farewell, Fountain! now not long
Shalt thou murmur to my song.
While thy crystal bubbles glancing,
Keep the time in mystic dancing,
Rise and swell, are burst and lost,
Like mortal schemes by fortune crossed.

The knot of fate at length is tied,
The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride!
Vainly did my magic sleight
Send the lover from her sight;
Wither bush, and perish well,
Fallen is lofty Avenel !

GOLDTHRED'S SONG

liptical and metaphorical terms of expression peculiar to the ancient Northern poetry:

FROM KENILWORTH

Published in 1821.

From Chapter ii. After some brief interval, Master Goldthred, at the earnest instigation of mine host, and the joyous concurrence of his guests, indulged the company with the following morsel of melody:'

Of all the birds on bush or tree,
Commend me to the owl,
Since he may best ensample be

To those the cup that trowl.

For when the sun hath left the west,

I

STERN eagle of the far northwest,

Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thunderbolt,

Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to madness,

Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the scatterer of navies,

Thou the breaker down of towers,
Amidst the scream of thy rage,

Amidst the rushing of thy onward wings, Though thy scream be loud as the cry of a perishing nation,

the roar of ten thousand waves, Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste, Hear thou the voice of the Reim-kennar.