XXIII,

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."

XXIV.

Он 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.

XXV.

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.

XXVI.

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.

(1827.)

XXVII.

Up, up, Lord Raymond, to the fight!
Gird on thy bow of yew!

And see thy javelin's point be bright,
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.