England :: :: University of Virginia Library

“A glove-like head, a golden hair,
A forehead smooth and high,
A seemly nose, on either side
Did shine a greyish eye:
Two rosy cheeks, and ruddy lips
White ivory teeth within,
A mouth in mean, and underneath
A round and dimpled chin.

A snow-white neck with bluish veins,
To make her seem more fair;
Yet, all her body fram'd so fine,
That earth had none more rare:
For life, for love, for form, for face,
None fairer was than she;
And none, but only she alone,
So fair a maid could be.”

—Old Ballad.

“She knew all birds by their strange carved note,
Each flower she conn'd by its bright painted hue;
No lone and silent grot she did not know,
No quaint inlacing of the summer trees,
No shadow where the brooks made sweetest flow,
No waterfall that wanton'd in the breeze.”
The Wandering Bard.

The hunting all is o'er. The merry shout
Of triumph ceas'd; and echo, tir'd and worn,
Scattereth no more the ringing sounds about
Of baying hounds. The stag that, at bright morn,
Heard, in proud glee, the hunter's silver horn,
And, like a sunbeam, shot along the grove,
Far-beaming—now hath all his beauty shorn,
And his lone mate is mourning for his love—
Alas, he never more before her eyes shall move.!

O for the hunter's glory! he awakes
With the first rays of morn, and mounts his steed,
Whilst pamper'd luxury still mourns its aches;
The green earth sounds beneath his charger's speed;
Ravine and fence he clears, and, in his need,
Braves the strong river's depths. His heart is full
Of valour; danger stimulates each deed;
He hath a hero's aim; he's never dull,
But full of lofty thoughts, and feelings beautiful.

Echo sends forth her sweetest notes for him;
Her music, o'er the sounding vales, doth swell
Clear notes that fill his soul unto the brim.
Content and jocund gladness with him dwell;
His spirit is elate. The mountains tell
Wild tales to him. The sunbeams come and greet
His entrance as he boundeth through each dell.
For him sweet dews make cool the burning heat,
And the fresh breezes mourn o'er his retreating feet.

Nor careth he for tempests that may roll,
So that they do not harm his favourite toil;
The bitter frosts can never chill his soul;
The pouring rains his pastime cannot spoil.
For him green vallies spread, bright fountains boil;
For him the hills a pleasant pathway form;
For him the glories of his native soil
Awake, and patriotic raptures warm,
As, on his bounding steed, he dasheth like a storm!

But who is he, this gallant hunter—who
This man of kingly form, who treads alone
The forest depths? What hath he here to do?
Dark were his raven locks, and proudly shone
His eyes, and, when he speaks, 'tis with a tone
Of birth and high command. Much doth he know,
I ween, each fair and courtly fashion. One
Who, at a lady's feet, can bend him low—
Virtue's most serpent lure, and beauty's deadliest foe.

And who is she that wandereth along—
That maid so wondrous and surpassing fair?
Is she the sylph that hath her reign among
These woods? or is she some bright shape of air
Dropp'd from the clouds, the heavens' peculiar care?
Bright beam those azure eyes that, open'd wide,
Gaze love and wonder; richly droops that hair
Which doth in amorous falls her bosom hide,
Like webs of precious silk around an eastern bride.

Those eyes would charm a seraph to despair;
And will they speak? O let us hear them speak!
Those teeth, like crystal hail drops, rank with care,
And cheeks enough a hermit's heart to break,
Like snow-white clouds touch'd with an evening streak;
And oh! that bosom where the loves repose,
Which, evermore, the summer breezes seek,
Is it not like a large and full-blown rose?
Oh! 'tis enough to pillow all our earthly woes!

We cannot often view such forms as thee,
Yet oh! in many a lone and hidden place,
Bloom many such in love and purity.
Scarce human eye can ever view their face,
Scarce human memory ever knows their trace,
But the still wood-walks hear their gentle feet,
And the sweet beds of violets know their pace;
And, do they not, like them, in summer's heat,
All slowly pine away to nature's winding sheet?

And she was good as she was beautiful;
Virtuous in mind as in her person pure.
The breath of calumny could never dull
The mirror of her soul, and passion's lure
Had never won her thoughts to aught impure.
Blameless and innocent she pass'd her life,
And nought of wrong or evil could endure;
The sins and vices in great cities rife
She knew not—living on without or care or strife.

It sooth'd king Edward's heart to see a maid
So lovely, so angelic, and so fair.
The flaunting wantons, gaudily array'd
With meretricious jewels in their hair—
Court butterflies upon the summer air;
What were they to this being of the shade?
Gay artificial flowers, arrang'd with care,
Will never tempt the bee, nor grace the glade,
But nature's simplest flower shines lovely without aid.

From earliest youth it was her precious dower
To wander free wherever she might list:
The woods, to her, were as a solemn bower,
By all the winds of morn and evening kist;
And, mid the shadows of the floating mist,
She, like a lovely spirit, trod the hills,
And, in the rapture of her soul, I wist,
Dreamt heavenly dreams among the murmurous rills,
And wept the rapturous tear that in warm bosoms fills.

Nature had plac'd her language in her eyes,
And on her cheeks, and on her lofty brow:
Her earliest infancy was pure and wise,
Fed by those secrets thousands never know:
Rich flowers within her inmost soul did grow;
Cull'd by invisible hands, and kept with care,
And guarded round from each invading foe;
Yea, in her language and inspired air,
Ye knew that she and nature were a wedded pair.

In the deep vale her father's castle stood,
Within the murmur of the waterfall,
And deep embosom'd in the shady wood:—
Green and majestic hills encompass'd all.
There, when the earliest morning streamers fall,
It was her wont to wander forth alone.
She saw the sun come from his regal hall,
And sit majestic on his burning throne;
She saw the gorgeous hues that o'er all nature shone.

She felt the welcome breezes on her brow,
And shook the dewdrops with her fairy feet;
She heard the first-wak'd songsters singing low,
Till, swelling high, far echoes answer'd sweet.
She heard the little lamb's melodious bleat;
The milkmaid's song along the green hill side;
The ploughman whistling in the noontide heat,
Or gaily talking to his love in pride:
And nature spoke to her as if she were his bride.

And noon, too, found her there. The sun on high
Shone perpendicular mid the fields of blue.
Each little bird now closed its weary eye
And sung no more. Each flower had lost the hue
With which the sprightly morn did them embue.
Dim heated mists lay on the sultry wood,
Born of the mid-day heat and morning dew;
The lonely hills, like sweaty giants, stood,
And peace and solemn calm ruled every solitude.

But O the evening was her chief delight!
Then, mid the massy-barred clouds on high,
The day-god clad himself in robes of light,
And, like a conqueror, trod the burning sky,
And glar'd upon the earth with fiery eye.
She saw his presence o'er the blazing sea,
(The mighty cradle where he soon must lie)
Each giant mountain own'd his sovranty,
And shap'd him palace domes where he might wander free.

The leaves she heard sweet rustling on the bough—
Soft cushions laid for every wild bird's rest;
She felt the evening breezes on her brow—
A gentle offering from the balmy west!
Feelings most pure and holy filled her breast,
To hear the universal language there;
To hear the ringdove cooing on her nest;
To hear the songs that warbled in the air;
To hear the voice of God, like conscience, everywhere.

Yea, she was pure as was that azure blue—
Pure as those waters in their mountain well:
Nature had fixed her influence, strong and true,
Making with her the best of precepts dwell.
Vainly then, Edward, mayst thou strive to tell
Tales fit for flaunting towns, and try to gloze
The theme of true love from the wanton's hell:
If thou wilt not this gentle maiden lose,
Thy tongue must own such thoughts as only nature knows.

And so they wandered sweetly up and down;
And gentle converse did beguile his soul:
And soon that monarch's beating heart did own
A flame shat raged beyond his will's control.
Each word she spake like honey-dew did fall
Upon his heart:—love revell'd in his brain,
And bound that mighty monarch to its thrall.
That king, so mighty on the battle plain,
Now sunk him down resign'd to love's delicious pain!

He, whom red war had robed in mists of blood,
Roaring in thunder 'neath his charger's feet,
Now felt, even like a hermit, meek and good,
Bound to a spell from which was no retreat.
He, who on England's throne held regal seat,
Knelt on the moss, dependant on a sigh;
He, at whose nod a nation's pulses beat,
Was now all vanquish'd by a downcast eye—
Chain'd, by a blushing girl, to Love's captivity.

“Ope wide the castle gates! Let holiday
Revel within our courts, and merry cheer
Heap for our banquets. This shall be a day
Of jubilee. Bring, bring the music near;
There shall be nought but joy and gladness here.
Let us have dance, and song, and festive show,
King Edward weds, this day, our daughter dear.
Bring, bring the music! Let the trumpet blow!
Let the loud minstrel sing, and let the wine-cups flow!”

The sweetest star of heaven's great hosts, that night,
Shone on the window-pane where Love was laid;
The tenderest moonbeams shed their mellow'd light
Upon the walls that held that lovely maid;
The warmest breezes with the roses play'd
Around her trellic'd chamber, and the stream
Within the grove his deepest hymnings made.
The nightingale, at midnight, weav'd his theme,
And sung harmonious songs that murmur'd in her dream!