The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

The First is for love and thee, Mary,—
The First is for love and thee;
And so firmly hold
Those links of gold,
That the Second it never shall be—Mary!

The Second is ever free, Mary,—
Free as the foaming brine;
As the fires that fly
From the poet's eye,
Or the laugh that speaks in thine—Mary!

Though the First be a wayward thing, Mary,—
Though a wayward thing it be,
When thought hath power
In the midnight hour,
Be sure it is ever with thee—Mary!

386

II. ENIGMA. THE LETTER A

Through thy short and shadowy span
I am with thee, Child of Man;
With thee still, from first to last,
In pain and pleasure, feast and fast,
At thy cradle and thy death,
Thine earliest wail, and dying breath.
Seek not thou to shun or save,
On the earth, or in the grave;
The worm and I, the worm and I,
In the grave together lie.

November, 1821.

387

III. GOOD-NIGHT

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt;
Sooth, 'twas an awful day!
And though in that old age of sport
The rufflers of the camp and court
Had little time to pray,
'Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there
Two syllables by way of prayer:

My First to all the brave and proud
Who see to-morrow's sun:
My Next, with her cold and quiet cloud,
To those who find their dewy shroud
Before to-day's be done:
And both together to all blue eyes,
That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

388

IV. ENIGMA. A BOTTLE

A Templar kneeled at a Friar's knee:
He was a comely youth to see,
With curling locks, and forehead high,
And flushing cheek, and flashing eye;
And the Monk was as jolly and large a man
As ever laid lip to a convent can
Or called for a contribution,
As ever read at midnight hour
Confessional in lady's bower,
Ordained for a peasant the penance whip,
Or spoke for a noble's venial slip
A venal absolution.

“O Father! in the dim twilight
I have sinned a grievous sin to-night;
And I feel hot pain e'en now begun
For the fearful murder I have done.

“I rent my victim's coat of green,
I pierced his neck with my dagger keen;
The red stream mantled high:

389

I grasped him, Father, all the while,
With shaking hand, and feverish smile,
And said my jest, and sang my song,
And laughed my laughter, loud and long,
Until his glass was dry!

“Though he was rich, and very old,
I did not touch a grain of gold,
But the blood I drank from the bubbling vein
Hath left on my lip a purple stain!”

“My son! my son! for this thou hast done;
Though the sands of thy life for aye should run,”
The merry Monk did say,
“Though thine eye be bright, and thine heart be light,
Hot spirits shall haunt thee all the night,
Blue devils all the day!”

The thunders of the Church were ended;
Back on his way the Templar wended;
But the name of him the Templar slew
Was more than the Inquisition knew.

390

V. RAINBOW

My First in torrents bleak and black
Was rushing from the sky,
When with my Second at his back
Young Cupid wandered by:
“Now take me in; the moon hath past;
I pray ye, take me in!
The lightnings flash, the hail falls fast,
All Hades rides the thunder-blast;
I'm dripping to the skin!”

“I know thee well, thy songs and sighs;
A wicked god thou art,
And yet most welcome to the eyes,
Most witching to the heart!”
The Wanderer prayed another prayer,
And shook his drooping wing;
The Lover bade him enter there,
And wrung my First from out his hair,
And dried my Second's string.

391

And therefore—(so the urchin swore,
By Styx, the fearful river,
And by the shafts his quiver bore,
And by his shining quiver)
That Lover aye shall see my Whole
In Life's tempestuous Heaven;
And, when the lightnings cease to roll,
Shall fix thereon his dreaming soul
In the deep calm of even.

392

VI. FIREFLY

The Indian lover burst
From his lone cot by night;—
When Love hath lit my First
In hearts by Passion nurst,
Oh who shall quench the light?

The Indian left the shore;
He heard the night-wind sing,
And cursed the tardy oar,
And wished that he could soar
Upon my Second's wing.

The blast came cold and damp;
But all the voyage through
I lent my lingering lamp,
As o'er the marshy swamp
He paddled his canoe.

393

VII. ENIGMA. A CHIME OF BELLS

In other days, when hope was bright,
Ye spake to me of love and light,
Of endless spring, and cloudless weather,
And hearts that doted linked together!

But now ye tell another tale;
That life is brief, and beauty frail,
That joy is dead, and fondness blighted,
And hearts that doted disunited!

Away! ye grieve and ye rejoice
In one unfelt unfeeling voice;
And ye, like every friend below,
Are hollow in your joy and woe!

394

VIII. KNIGHTHOOD

Alas for that forgotten day
When Chivalry was nourished,
When none but friars learned to pray,
And beef and beauty flourished,
And fraud in kings was held accurst,
And falsehood sin was reckoned,
And mighty cnargers bore my First,
And fat monks wore my Second!

Oh then I carried sword and shield,
And casque with flaunting feather
And earned my spurs in battle field,
In winter and rough weather;
And polished many a sonnet up
To ladies' eyes and tresses,
And learned to drain my father's cup,
And loose my falcon's jesses.

How grand was I in olden days!
How gilded o'er with glory!
The happy mark of ladies' praise,
The theme of minstrels' story;

395

Unmoved by fearful accidents,
All hardships stoutly spurning,
I laughed to scorn the elements—
And chiefly those of Learning.

Such things have vanished like a dream;
The mongrel mob grows prouder;
And every thing is done by steam,
And men are killed by powder:
I feel, alas! my fame decay;
I give unheeded orders,
And rot in paltry state away,
With Sheriffs and Recorders.

396

IX. HEART-ACHE

My First's an airy thing.
Joying in flowers,
Evermore wandering
In Fancy's bowers;
Living on beauteous smiles
From eyes that glisten.
And telling of Love's wiles
To ears that listen.

But if, in its first flush
Of warm emotion,
My Second come to crush
Its young devotion,
Oh! then it wastes away,
Weeping and waking,
And, on some sunny day,
Is blest in breaking!

397

X. DEATH-WATCH

On the casement frame the wind beat high;
Never a star was in the sky;
All Kenneth Hold was wrapt in gloom,
And Sir Everard slept in the Haunted Room.

I sat and sang beside his bed;—
Never a single word I said,
Yet did I scare his slumber;
And a fitful light in his eyeball glistened,
And his cheek grew pale as he lay and listened,
For he thought or dreamt that Fiends and Fays
Were reckoning o'er his fleeting days
And telling out their number.
Was it my Second's ceaseless tone?
On my Second's hand he laid his own;
The hand that trembled in his grasp
Was crushed by his convulsive clasp.

Sir Everard did not fear my First;—
He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst,
In many a field and flood;

398

Yet in the darkness of that dread
His tongue was parched and his reason fled,
And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim,
To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,
Come dabbled o'er with blood.

Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;
He prayed for light, and he prayed for day,
Till terror checked his prayer;
And ever I muttered clear and well
“Click, click,” like a tolling bell,
Till, bound by Fancy's magic spell,
Sir Everard fainted there.

And oft, from that remembered night,
Around the taper's flickering light
The wrinkled beldames told,
Sir Everard had knowledge won
Of many a murder darkly done,
Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,
And Ghosts that walk their midnight rounds
In the Tower of Kenneth Hold!

1822.

399

XI. BOWSTRING

The canvas rattled on the mast
As rose the swelling sail,
And gallantly the vessel past
Before the cheering gale;
And on my First Sir Florice stood,
As the far shore faded now,
And looked upon the lengthening flood
With a pale and pensive brow:—
“When shall I bear thy silken glove
Where the proudest Moslem flee,
My lady love, my lady love,—
O waste one thought on me!”

Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell
With none to soothe or save,
And high above his chamber fell
The echo of the wave;
But still he struck my Second there,
And bade its tones renew
Those hours when every hue was fair
And every hope was true:—

400

“If still your angel footsteps move
Where mine may never be,
My lady love, my lady love,
O dream one dream of me!

Not long the Christian captive pined!—
My Whole was round his neck;
A sadder necklace ne'er was twined
So white a skin to deck:
Queen Folly ne er was yet content
With gems or golden store,
But he who wears this ornament
Will rarely sigh for more:—
“My spirit to the Heaven above,
My body to the sea,
My heart to thee, my lady love,—
O weep one tear for me!”

401

XII. MOONLIGHT

Row on, row on!—The First may light
My shallop o'er the wave to-night,
But she will hide in a little while
The lustre of her silent smile;
For fickle she is, and changeful still,
As a madman's wish, or a woman's will.

Row on, row on!—The Second is high
In my own bright Lady's balcony;
And she beside it, pale and mute,
Untold her beads, untouched her lute,
Is wondering why her lover's skiff
So slowly glides to the lonely cliff.

Row on, row on!—when the Whole is fled,
The song will be hushed and the rapture dead,
And I must go in my grief again
To the toils of day and the haunts of men,—
To a future of fear and a present of care,
And Memory's dream of the things that were.

My Second was born a wayward thing,
Like others of his name,
With a fancy as light as the gossamer's wing
And a spirit as hot as flame;
And apt to trifle time away,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave;

403

And far too weak and far too wild
And far too free of thought
To rend what Venus' laughing child
On Vulcan's anvil wrought.

And alas! as he led, that festal night,
His mistress down the stair,
And felt by the flambeau's flickering light
That she was very fair,
He did not guess,—as they paused to hear
How Music's dying tone
Came mournfully to the distant ear
With a magic all its own,—
That the Archer-God to thrall his soul
Was lingering in the porch,
Disguised that evening like my Whole.
With a sooty face and torch!

404

XIV. BELLROPE

When Ralph by holy hands was tied
For life to blooming Cis,
Sir Thrifty too drove home his bride,
A fashionable Miss.
That day my First with jovial sound
Proclaimed the happy tale,
And drunk was all the country round
With pleasure or with ale.

Oh! why should Hymen ever blight
The roses Cupid wore?
Or why should it be ever night
Where it was day before?—
Or why should women have a tongue?
Or why should it be curst
In being, like my Second, long,
And louder than my First?

405

“You blackguard!” cries the rural wench,
My Lady screams—“Ah! bête!”
And Lady Thrifty scolds in French,
And Cis in Billingsgate;
Till both their Lords my Second try
To end connubial strife,
Sir Thrifty has the means to die,
And Ralph, to beat his wife!

406

XV. BUTTRESS

Lord Ronald by the gay torch-light
Held revel in his hall;
He broached my First, that jovial Knight,
And pledged his vassals tall;
The red stream went from wood to can
And then from can to mouth,
And the deuce a man knew how it ran
Nor heeded north or south:
“Let the health go wide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he saw the river flow;—
“One cup to-night to the noblest bride
And one to the stoutest foe!”

Lord Ronald kneeled, when the morning came,
Low in his mistress' bower;
And she gave him my Second, that beauteous dame,
For a spell in danger's hour;
Her silver shears were not at hand;
And she smiled a playful smile,
As she cleft it with her lover's brand,
And grew not pale the while:

407

And “Ride, and ride!” Lord Ronald cried,
As he kissed its auburn glow;
“For he that woos the noblest bride
Must beard the stoutest foe!”

Lord Ronald stood, when the day shone fair,
In his garb of glittering mail,
And marked how my Whole was crumbling there
With the battle's iron hail:
The bastion and the battlement
On many a craven crown
Like rocks from some huge mountain rent
Were trembling darkly down:
“Whate'er betide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he bade his trumpets blow:
“I shall win to-day the noblest bride,
Or fall by the stoutest foe!”

408

XVI. PEACOCK

I graced Don Pedro's revelry,
All drest in fire and feather,
When Loveliness and Chivalry
Were met to feast together;
He flung the slave who moved the lid
A purse of maravedis,—
And this that gallant Spaniard did
For me, and for the Ladies.

He vowed a vow, that noble Knight,
Before he went to table,
To make his only sport the fight,
His only couch the stable,
Till he had dragged, as he was bid,
Five score of Turks to Cadiz,—
And this that gallant Spaniard did
For me, and for the Ladies.

409

To ride through mountains, where my First
A banquet would be reckoned,—
Through deserts where, to quench their thirst,
Men vainly turn my Second;—
To leave the gates of fair Madrid,
To dare the gates of Hades,—
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me, and for the Ladies.

410

XVII. MOONSHINE

He talked of daggers and of darts.
Of passions and of pains,
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
Of kisses and of chains;
He said though Love was kin to Grief
She was not born to grieve;
He said though many rued belief
She safely might believe.
But still the Lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

He said my First, whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,
Veiled in a vapour, faint and far,
Through the unfathomed sky,
Was like the smile whose rosy light
Across her young lips past,
Yet oh! it was not half so bright,
It changed not half so fast.

411

But still the Lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

And then he set a cypress wreath
Upon his raven hair,
And drew his rapier from its sheath,
Which made the Lady stare;
And said, his life-blood's purple flow
My Second there should dim
If she he served and worshipped so
Would weep one tear for him.—
But still the Lady shook her head.
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

412

XVIII. WODEN

Uncouth was I of face and form,
But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence and thunderstorm,
By famine and by fight;
I pierced the rivets of the mail,
I maimed the war-steed's hoof,
I bade the yellow harvest fail,
And sent the blast to rend the sail
And the bolt to rend the roof.

Within my Second's dark recess
In silent pomp I dwelt,
Before the mouth in lowliness
My rude adorers knelt;
'Twas a fearful place; a pile of stones
Stood for its stately door;
Its music was of sighs and groans,
And the torch light fell on human bones
Unburied on the floor!

413

The chieftain, ere his band he led,
Came thither with his prayer;
The boatman, ere his sail he spread,
Watched for an omen there;
And ever the shriek rang loud within,
And ever the red blood ran,
And amid the sin and smoke and din
I sate with a changeless, endless grin,
Forging my First for Man!

My priests are rotting in their grave,
My shrine is silent now;
There is no victim in my cave,
No crown upon my brow;
Nothing is left but dust and clay
Of all that was divine;
My name and my memory pass away,
But dawn and dusk of one fair day
Are called by mortals mine.

414

XIX. NECKLACE

My First to-night in young Haidee
Is so surpassing fair,
That though my Second precious be
It shews all faded there;
And let my Whole be never twined
To shame those beaming charms,
A richer one she cannot find
Than fond Affections arms.

1826.

XX. WINDLASS

He who can make my First to roll
When not a breath is blowing.
May very slightly turn my Whole
To set a mountain going:

He who can curb my Second's will
When she's inclined for roving,
May turn my Whole more slightly still
To cure the moon of moving!

XXI. SEASON

Across my First, with flash and roar,
The stately vessel glides alone;
And silent on the crowded shore
There kneels an aged crone,
Watching my Second's parting smile
As he looks farewell to his native isle.

My Whole comes back to other eyes
With beauteous change of fruits and flowers;
But black to her are those bright skies,
And sad those joyous bowers;
Alas! my First is dark and deep,
And my Second cannot hear her weep!

XXII. CROSSBOW

Sir Eustace goes to the far Crusade
In radiant armour drest;
And my First is graven on his blade,
And broidered on his breast.

And a flush is on his cheek and brow.
And a fever in his blood,
As he stands upon my Second now,
And gazes on the flood.

Away, away!—the canvas drives
Like a sea-bird's rustling wing;
My Whole hath a score of Moslem lives
Upon its twanging string.

402

XXIII. DONKEY

My First came forth in booted state
For far Valencia bound,
And smiled to feel my Second's weight
And hear its creaking sound:
And “Here's a gaoler, sweet,” quoth he,
“You cannot bribe or cozen:
To keep one ward in custody
Wise men will forge a dozen.”

But day-break saw a Lady ride
My Whole across the plain,
With a handsome Cavalier beside
To hold her bridle-rein:
And “Blessing on the bonds,” quoth he,
“Which wrinkled Age imposes!
If Woman must your prisoner be
Your chain should be of roses.”

415

XXIV. COURTSHIP

Oh yes! her childhood hath been nurst
In all the follies of my First;
And why doth she turn from the glittering throng,
From the Courtier's jest, and the Minstrel's song?

Why doth she look where the ripples play
Around my Second in yon fair bay,
While the boat in the twilight nears the shore,
With her speechless crew, and her muffled oar?

Hath she not heard in her lonely bower
My Whole's fond tale of magic power?
Softer and sweeter that music flows
Than the Bulbul's hymn to the midnight rose.

416

XXV. GLOW-WORM

My First, that was so fresh and fair
Hath faded—faded from thy face;
And pale Decay hath left no trace
Of bloom and beauty there.

And round that virgin heart of thine
My Second winds his cold caress;
That virgin heart, whose tenderness
Was Passion's purest shrine.

Roses are springing on thy clay;
And there my Whole, obscurely bright,
Still shows his little lamp by night
And hides it still by day.

Aptly it decks that cypress bower,
For even thus thy faith was proved,
Most clearly seen, most fondly loved,
In Sorrow's darkest hour.

417

XXVI. NIGHTSHADE

When my First flings down o'er tower and town
Its sad and solemn veil,
When the tempests sweep o'er the angry deep
And the stars are ghastly pale,
And the gaunt wolves howl to the answering owl
In the pause of the fitful gale,

My Second will come to his ancient home
From his dark and narrow bed;
His warrior heel is cased in steel,
But ye cannot hear its tread;
And the beaming brand is in his hand,
But ye need not fear the dead.

Through battle and blast his bark had past,
O'er many a stormy tide;
He had burst in twain the tyrant's chain,
He had won the beauteous bride;
From the field of fame unscathed he came,
And by my Whole he died.

418

XXVII. WARDEN

Up, up, Lord Raymond, to the fight!
Gird on thy bow of yew!
And see thy javelin's point be brignt,
Thy falchion's temper true;
For over the hill and over the vale
My First is pouring its iron hail.

No craven he! yet beaten back
From the field of death he fled;
My Second yawned upon his track,
The lion's lonely bed;
He smote the Monarch in his lair,
And buried his rage and anguish there.

At dawn and dusk my Whole goes forth
On the ladder's topmost round;
He looks to the south, he looks to the north,
He bids the bugle sound;
But many a cheerless moon must wane,
Ere his exiled lord return again.

419

XXVIII. BRIDEGROOM

Morning is beaming o'er brake and bower;
Hark to the chimes from yonder tower!
Call ye my First from her chamber now,
With her snowy veil, and her jewelled brow.

Lo, where my Second in gallant array
Leads from his stable her beautiful bay,
Looking for her, as he curvets by,
With an arching neck, and a glancing eye.

Spread is the banquet, and studied the song;
Ranged in meet order the menial throng;
Jerome is ready with book and stole;
And the maidens fling flowers:—but where is my Whole?

Look to the hill; is he climbing its side?
Look to the stream; is he crossing its tide?
Out on him, false one; he comes not yet!
Lady, forget him! yea, scorn and forget!

420

XXIX. NIGHTCAP

My First was dark o'er earth and air,
As dark as she could be;
The stars that gemmed her ebon hair
Were only two or three;
King Cole saw twice as many there
As you or I could see.

“Away, King Cole!” mine hostess said;
“Flagon and flask are dry;
Your nag is neighing in the shed,
For he knows a storm is nigh:”
She set my Second on his head,
And she set it all awry.

He stood upright upon his legs;
Long life to good King Cole!
With wine and cinnamon, ale and eggs,
He filled a silver bowl;
He drained the draught to the very dregs,
And he called that draught—my Whole.

421

XXX. CAMPBELL

Come from my First, ay, come;
The battle dawn is nigh;
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum
Are calling thee to die;
Fight, as thy father fought;
Fall, as thy father fell:
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;—
So, forward! and farewell!

Toll ye my Second, toll;
Fling high the flambeau's light;
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night;
The helm upon his head,
The cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;
Now take him to his rest!

426

Call ye my Whole, go, call;
The Lord of lute and lay;
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day:
Ay, call him by his name;
No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldiers grave!

427

XXXI. CAMBRIDGE

My First in its usual quiet way
Was creeping along on a wintry day,
When a minstrel came to its muddy bed,
With a harp on his shoulder, a wreath on his head;
And “How shall I cross,” the poor bard cried,
“To the cloisters and courts on the other side?”

Old Euclid came; he frowned a frown;
He flung the harp and the green wreath down;
And he led the boy with a stately march
To my Second's neat and narrow Arch;
And “See,” quoth the sage, “how every ass
Over the sacred stream must pass.”

428

The youth was mournful, the youth was mute;
He sighed for his laurel, and sobbed for his lute;
The youth took courage, the youth took snuff;
He followed in faith his teacher gruff;
And he sits ever since on my Whole's kind lap
In a silken gown, and a trencher cap.

429

XXXII. HEIRLOOM

An aged man with locks of snow
Sits o'er his glass serenely gay;
Plain Tom the weaver long ago,
Sir Thomas Clover, Knight, to-day:
My First beside his grandsire stands,
A comely stripling, stout and tall,
The future lord of his broad lands
And of his hospitable hall.

“What can it mean, my pretty toy,
With all its wheels, and threads, and springs?”
And as he speaks, the wondering boy
His arms around his grandsire flings:
He's puzzled, puzzled, more and more;
And putting on a look of thought,
He turns my Second o'er and o'er,
A silver model deftly wrought.

430

The good Knight hears with placid smile,
And bids him in the plaything view
A proud memorial of the toil
By which his grandsire's fortunes grew:
And tells him this my Whole shall be;
Still handed down from son to son,
To teach them by what industry
Their titles and their lands were won.

431

XXXIII. FOOTPAD

The Palmer comes from the Holy Land;
Scarce on my First can the Palmer stand:
The Prior will take the air to-day;
In my Second the Prior trots away:
His pleasanter under a summer sun
With robes to ride, than with rags to run.

My Whole leaped out of the road-side ditch,
With “Stand!” to the poor man, and “Stand!” to the rich:
From the Prior he strips his mantie fair;
From the Palmer he wins but pity and prayer:
'Tis safer when crime is prowling wide
With rags to run, than with robes to ride.

432

XXXIV. CUPBOARD

O'Donoghue came to the hermit's cell;
He climbed the ladder, he pulled the bell;
“I have ridden,” said he, with the Saint to dine
On his richest meat, and his reddest wine.”

The Hermit hasted my First to fill
With water from the limpid rill;
And “Drink,” quoth he, “of the juice, brave Knight,
Which breeds no fever, and prompts no fight.”

The Hermit hasted my Second to spread
With stalks of lettuce and crusts of bread;
And “Taste,” quoth he, “of the cates, fair guest,
Which bring no surfeit, and break no rest.”

Hasty and hungry the Chief explored
My Whole with the point of his ready sword,
And found, as yielded the latch and lock,
A pasty of game and a flagon of hock.

433

XXXV. BRIMSTONE

The night was dark, the night was damp:
St. Bruno read by his lonely lamp.
The Fiend dropped in to make a call,
As he posted away to a fancy ball;
And “Can't I find,” said the Father of lies,
“Some present a Saint may not despise?”

Wine he brought him, such as yet
Was ne'er on Pontiff's table set:
Weary and faint was the holy man,
But he crossed with a cross the Tempter's can,
And saw, ere my First to his parched lip came,
That it was red with liquid flame.

Jewels he showed him—many a gem
Fit for a Sultan's diadem:
Dazzled, I trow, was the anchorite:
But he told his beads with all his might;
And instead of my Second, so rich and rare,
A pinch of worthless dust lay there.

434

A Lady at last he handed in,
With a bright black eye and a fair white skin:
The stern ascetic flung, 'tis said,
A ponderous missal at her head:
She vanished away; and what a smell
Of my Whole she left in the hermit's cell!

435

XXXVI RHINEGRAVE

Upon my First's blue stream
The moon's cold light is sleeping,
And Marion in her mournful dream
Is wandering there and weeping.
Where is my Whole?—this hour
His boat should cleave the water;
He is a Knight of pride and power,
But he loves the Huntsman's daughter.

The shroud her marriage vest—
The stone her nuptial pillow—
So, in my Second let her rest,
Beneath the grieving willow.
Where is my Whole?—go Song,
Go solemn Song, to chide him;
His hall lets in a revelling throng,
And a gay bride smiles beside him!

August, 1829.

436

XXXVII. BLOCKHEAD

He hath seen the tempest lower;
He hath dared the foeman's spear;
He hath welcomed death on tide and tower:
How will he greet him here?
My First was set, and in his place
You might see the dark man stand,
With a fearful vizor on his face,
And a bright axe in his hand.

Short shrift, and hurried praver:
Now bid the pale priest go;
And let my Second be bound and bare
To meet the fatal blow.
The dark man grinned in bitter scorn;
And you might hear him say,
“It was black as jet but yestermorn,
Whence is it white to-day?”

437

“Rise!—thou art pardoned!”—vain!
Lift up the lifeless clay;
On the skin no scratch, on the steel no stain,—
But the soul hath past away.
The dark man laid his bright axe by
As he heard the tower clock chime;
And he thought that none but my Whole would die
A minute before the time.

July, 1829.

438

XXXVIII. FOXGLOVE

There hangs a picture in an ancient hall:
A groop of hunters meeting in their joy
On a green lawn; the gladdest of them all
Is old Sir Geoffrey's heir, a bright-eyed boy
A little girl has heard the bugle call,
And she is running from her task or toy
To whisper caution: on the pony bounds,
And see, my First steals off before the hounds.

There is another picture;—that wild youth
Is grown to manhood; by the great salt lake
He clasps his new sword on; and gentle Ruth
Smiles, smiles and sobs, as if her heart would break.
And talks right well of constancy and truth,
And bids him keep my Second for her sake,—
A precious pledge that, wander where he will,
One heart will think and dream about him still.

439

And yet another picture; from far lands
The truant is returned; but ah, his bride,
Sickness hath marred her beauty! mute he stands,
Mute in the darkened chamber by her side;
And brings the medicine, sweetest from those hands,
Still whispering hope which she would check or chide.
Doth the charmed cup recall the fainting soul
E'en from Death's grasp? Oh! blessings on my Whole!

1831.