With accordant steps, or gathering
Forest fruit with social hands;

Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moonbeam

Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal

stream.

On a friendly deck reposing,

They at length for Venice steer;

There, when they had closed their voyage,
One, who daily on the pier

Watch'd for tidings from the east, beheld his lord, Fell down and clasp'd his knees for joy, not uttering word.

Mutual was the sudden transport;
Breathless questions follow'd fast,
Years contracting to a moment,
Each word greedier than the last;

'Hie thee to the countess, friend! return with speed,

And of this stranger speak by whom her lord was freed.

"Say that I, who might have languish'd,
Droop'd, and pined till life was spent,
Now before the gates of Stolberg
My deliverer would present

For a crowning recompense, the precious grace
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place.

"Make it known that my companion

Is of royal Eastern blood,
Thirsting after all perfection,

Innocent, and meek, and good,

Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark night Will Holy Church disperse by beams of gospel light."

Swiftly went that gray-hair'd servant,
Soon return'd a trusty page

Charged with greetings, benedictions,
Thanks and praises, each a gage

For a sunny thought to cheer the stranger's way,
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay.

Fancy (while, to banners floating
High on Stolberg's castle walls,
Deafening noise of welcome mounted,
Trumpets, drums, and atabols)

The devout embraces still, while such tears fell
As made a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.

Through a haze of human nature,
Glorified by heavenly light,

Look'd the beautiful deliverer

On that overpowering sight,

While across her virgin cheek pure blushes stray'd,
For every tender sacrifice her heart had made.

On the ground the weeping countess
Knelt, and kiss'd the stranger's hand;
Act of soul-devoted homage,

Pledge of an eternal band:

Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie,
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify.

Constant to the fair Armenian,
Gentle pleasures round her moved,
Like a tutelary spirit

Reverenced, like a sister loved.

Christian meekness smooth'd for all the path of life, Who loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife.

Mute memento of that union
In a Saxon church survives,

Where a cross-legg'd knight lies sculptured
As between two wedded wives-

Figures with armorial signs of race and birth,
And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while yet on

earth.

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

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 rear'd,

As story says, in antique days,

A stern-brow'd house appear'd;
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 stoop'd to play,

Doubt came not, nor regret;
To trouble hours that wing'd their way,
As if through an immortal day
Whose sun could never set.

But in old times love dwelt not long
Sequester'd with repose;

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

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.

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 needle-work and flowers.

Yet blest was Emma when she heard

Her champion's praise recounted;

Though brain would swim, and eyes grows 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 walk'd 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,

In white array'd, 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!

Perplex'd 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 valour, truth, and love.

So from the spot whereon he stood,
He moved with stealthy pace;
And, drawing nigh, with his living eye,
He recognised the face;

And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall,—
"Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may he!"

Soul-shatter'd was the knight, nor knew
If Emma's ghost it were,

Or boding shade, or if the maid
Her very self stood there.

He touch'd, what follow'd who shall tell?
The soft touch snapp'd the thread

Of slumber-shrieking, back she fell,
And the stream whirl'd 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 pass'd away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace

Her faithful spirit flew,

His voice; beheld his speaking face,
And, dying, from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.

So was he reconciled to life;

Brief words may speak the rest;
Within the dell he built a cell,

And there was sorrow's guest;
In hermit's weeds repose he found.
From vain temptations free;
Beside the torrent dwelling-bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

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,
Though minister of sorrow:
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ;
And thou, in lover's hearts forgiven,
Shall take thy place with Yarrow!

And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm-
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
-But there's a tree, of many one,

A single field which I have looked upon-
Both of them speak of something that is gone;
The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat.
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now,
the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory, do we come
From God, who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy;

But he beholds the light and whence it flows

He sees it in his joy.

The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

VI.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own, Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind; And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses-
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art-
A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral

And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song.
Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part-
Filling from time to time his

stage"

"humorous

With all the persons, down to palsied age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

VIII.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity!

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage! thou eye among the blind,
That deaf, and silent, readst the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind!-

Mighty prophet! Seer blest,

On whom those truths do rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave!
Thou over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by!
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro-
voke

The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly
freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX.

Oh joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live, That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

[hour
Though nothing can bring back the
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower-
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind:
In the primal sympathy

Which, having been, must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

ΧΙ.

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway. [fret,
I love the brooks which down their channels
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

breed

Perpetual benediction: not, indeed,

For that which is most worthy to be blest

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

Do take a sober coloring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality: Another race hath been, and other palms are

won.

breast

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings,
Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts, before which our mortal nature

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised-
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing.

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to
make

Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
To perish never-

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither-
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fearsTo me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

YARROW UNVISITED.

FROM Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome marrow :
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow; 'tis their own-
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus ;
There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land
Made bliche with plough and harrow:

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused-
A tender, hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here t' admit

A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?

His bed perchance was yen smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding;
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The water-wraith ascended thrice,
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers-
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers;
And pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love:
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !

But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation.

Meek loveliness is round thee spread-
A softness still and holy,

The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;

And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a ruin hoary!

The shattered front of Newark's towers,
Renowned in border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,

For sportive youth to stray in;

For manhood to enjoy his strength,

And age to wear away in!

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,

A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts that nestle there-
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my true-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I inwreathed my own!
'Twere no offence to reason;

The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see-but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives-
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.