Little they loved, but a Frau, or a feast,

Nothing they feared, but a prayer, or a priest :
But there was not one in all the land

More trusty of heart, or more stout of hand,
More valiant in field, or more courteous in bower,
Than Otto, the Lord of Belmont Tower.

Are you rich, single, and "your Grace?"
I pity your unhappy case.

Before you leave your travelling carriage,
The women have arranged your marriage;

Where'er your weary wit may lead you,

They pet you, praise you, fret you, feed you;
Consult your taste in wreaths and laces,

And make you make their books at Races.
Your little pony, Tam o' Shanter,

Is found to have the sweetest canter;
Your curricle is quite reviving,

And Jane's so bold when you are driving.

Some recollect your father's habits,

And know the warren, and the rabbits!
The place is really princely,-only
They're sure you'll find it vastly lonely.
You go to Cheltenham for the waters,
And meet the Countess and her daughters:
You take a cottage at Geneva,—

Lo! Lady Anne, and Lady Eva.

In horror of another session,

You just surrender at discretion;

And live to curse the frauds of mothers,
And envy all your younger brothers.

Count Otto bowed, Count Otto smiled,
When My Lady praised her darling child;
Count Otto smiled, Count Otto bowed,
When the child those praises disavowed:
As a knight should gaze, Count Otto gazed,
Where Bertha in all her beauty blazed;
As a knight should hear, Count Otto heard,
When Liba sang like a forest bird;

But he thought, I trow, about as long
Of Bertha's beauty, and Liba's song,

As the sun may think of the clouds that play
O'er his radiant path on a summer day.
Many a maid had dreams of state,

As the Count rode up to her father's gate;

Many a maid shed tears of pain,

As the Count rode back to his Tower again;

But little he cared, as it should seem,

For the sad, sad tear, or the fond, fond dream: Alone he lived-alone, and free,

As the owl that dwells in the hollow tree; And the Baroness said, and the Baron swore, There never was knight so shy before!

It was almost the first of May:
The sun all smiles had past away;

The moon was beautifully bright;
Earth, heaven, as usual in such cases,
Looked up and down with happy faces;
In short, it was a charming night.
And all alone, at twelve o'clock,

The young Count clambered down the rock,
Unfurled the sail, unchained the oar,
And pushed the shallop from the shore.
The holiness that sweet time flings
Upon all human thoughts and things,
When sorrow checks her idle sighs,
And care shuts fast her wearied eyes;
The splendour of the hues that played
Fantastical o'er hill and glade,

1

As verdant slope and barren cliff

Seemed darting by the tiny skiff;

The flowers whose faint tips, here and there,
Breathed out such fragrance, you might swear
That every soundless gale that fanned
The tide came fresh from fairy land;
The music of the mountain rill,
Leaping in glee from hill to hill,

To which some wild bird, now and then,
Made answer from her darksome glen--
All this to him had rarer pleasure

Than jester's wit, or minstrel's measure;

F

And, if you ever loved romancing,

Or felt extremely tired of dancing,

You will not wonder that Count Otto
Left Lady Hildegonde's ridotto.

What melody glides o'er the star-lit stream?

"Lurley,-Lurley!"

Angels of grace! does the young Count dream? "Lurley,-Lurley!"—

Or is indeed the scene so fair,

That a nymph of the sea or a nymph of the air Has left the home of her own delight,

To sing to our roses and rocks to-night.

Words there are none; but the waves prolong
The notes of that mysterious song;

He listens, he listens,-and all around
Ripple the echoes of that sweet sound;

No form appears on the river side;
No boat is borne on the wandering tide;
And the tones ring on, with nought to show
Or whence they come, or whither they go;

Lurley,-Lurley!"

As fades one murmur on the ear,

There comes another, just as clear;

And the present is like to the parted strain,
As link to link of a golden chain:

Whether the voice be sad or gay,

'T were very hard for the Count to say ;

But pale are his cheeks, and pained his brow;
And the boat drifts on, he recks not how;

His pulse is quick, and his heart is wild,

And he weeps, he weeps like a little child.

O mighty music! they who know
The witchery of thy wondrous bow,

Forget, when thy strange spells have bound them,

The visible world that lies around them.

When Lady Mary sings Rossini,
Or stares at spectral Paganini,

To Lady Mary does it matter,

Who laugh, who love, who frown, who flatter?
Oh no; she cannot heed or hear

Reason or rhyme from prince or peer :
In vain for her Sir Charles denounces
The horror of the last new flounces;
In vain the Doctor does his duty,
By doubting of her rival's beauty;
And if My Lord, as usual raves
About the sugar and the slaves;
Predicts the nation's future glories,
And chants the requiem of the Tories;
Good man; she minds him just as much,
As Marshal Gerard minds the Dutch.