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XXIV.

OII yes! her childhood hath been nursed
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 2

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 bear its tread:

And the beaming brand is in his hand,
But ye need not fear the dead.

Through battle and blast his bark had passed,
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.
Vol. 2–26

XXVIII.

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,
Ilooking 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 2

Look to the hill, is he climbing its side 3 Look to the stream—is he crossing its tide 3 Out on him, false one he comes not yet— Lady, forget him, yea, scorn and forget.

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