The Bridal of Triermain. INTRODUCTION. I. COME, LUCY! while 't is morning hour Though vanished from the velvet grass. For here compelled to disunite, Round petty isles the runnels glide, And chafing off their puny spite, The shallow murmurers waste their might, Yielding to footstep free and light A dry-shod pass from side to side. II. Nay, why this hesitating pause? And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws, Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim? That this same stalwart arm of mine, Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear, Shall shrink beneath the burden dear Of form so slender, light, and fine. So now, the danger dared at last, Look back and smile at perils past! III. And now we reach the favorite glade, Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone, Where never harsher sounds invade To break affection's whispering tone Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat; Mossed is the stone, the turf is green, A place where lovers best may meet Who would not that their love be seen. The boughs that dim the summer sky That fain would spread the invidious tale, IV. How deep that blush! - how deep that sigh! Than the dull glance of common men, Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow, Well pleased that thou art Arthur's choice, Yet shamed thine own is placed so low : Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek, As if to meet the breezes cooling; Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, For Love too has his hours of schooling. V. Too oft my anxious eye has spied Too oft when through the splendid hall, The loadstar of each heart and eye, My fair one leads the glittering ball, Will her stolen glance on Arthur fall With such a blush and such a sigh! Thou wouldst not yield for wealth or rank The heart thy worth and beauty won, Nor leave me on this mossy bank To meet a rival on a throne: Since Heaven assigned him for his part A lyre, a falchion, and a heart? VI. My sword its master must be dumb; That boasts a pulse so warm as mine? I might have learned their choice unwise Who rate the dower above the soul And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. VII. My lyre it is an idle toy That borrows accents not its own, Like warbler of Colombian sky That sings but in a mimic tone. Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, Nor boasts it aught of Border spell; Its strings no feudal slogan pour, Its heroes draw no broad claymore; No shouting clans applauses raise Because it sung their fathers' praise; On Scottish moor, or English down, It ne'er was graced with fair renown; Nor won best meed to minstrel true One favoring smile from fair BUCCLEUCH! By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, And heard by one dear maid alone. VIII. But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell For Lucy loves like COLLINS, ill-starred name! 339 WHERE is the maiden of mortal strain That may match with the Baron of Triermain? She must be lovely and constant and kind, Lovely as the sun's first ray When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Trier main. II. Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep. He had been pricking against the Scot, The foray was long and the skirmish hot; His dinted helm and his buckler's plight Bore token of a stubborn fight. All in the castle must hold them still, Harpers must lull him to his rest With the slow soft tunes he loves the best Till sleep sink down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill. III. It was the dawn of an autumn day; When that baron bold awoke. IV. 'Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all It seemed an angel's whispered call |