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Sir Everard kneel'd, and strove to pray,
He pray'd for light, and he prayed for day,

Till terror check’d his prayer;
And ever I mutter'd clear and well
“ Click, click,” like a tolling bell,
Till, bound in Fancy's magic spell,

Sir Everard fainted there. .

The canvas rattled on the mast,

As rose the swelling sail ;
And gallantly the vessel passed

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 I shall bear thy silken glove

Where the proudest Moslem flee,
My lady love, my lady love,

Oh, 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 :-

“ If still your angel footsteps move,

Where mine may never be, My lady love, my lady love,

Oh, 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,

Oh, weep one tear for me!"


UNCOUTH was I of face and form,

But strong to blast and blight, By pestilence or thunderstorm,

By famine or by fight;
Not a warrior went to the battle plain,

Not a pilot steered the ship,
That did not look in doubt and pain,
For an omen of havoc or hurricane,

To my dripping brow and lip.

· Within my Second's dark recess

In silent pomp I dwelt;
Before the mouth in lowliness

My rude adorers knelt;
And ever the shriek rang loud within,

And ever the red blood ran;
And amid the sin and smoke and din,
I sat 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 :-
And yet this bright and glorious day

Is called by mortals mine!


Lord Ronald by the rich torchlight

Feasted his vassals tall;
And he broached my First, that jovial knight,

Within his bannered hall:
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 health 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:
“ And ride, and ride,” Lord Ronald cried,

As he kissed its silken 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 tumbling darkly down:
" Whate’er betide,” Lord Ronald cried,

As he bade his trumpets blow"I shall win to-night the noblest Bride,

Or fall by the stoutest Foe !"

One day my First young Cupid made

In Vulcan’s Lemnian cell,
For alas! he has learn’d his father's trade,

As many have found too well;
He work'd not the work with golden twine,

He wreathed it not with flowers,
He left the metal to rust in the mine,

The roses to fade in the bowers :
He forged my First of looks and sighs,

Of painful doubts and fears,
Of passionate hopes and memories,

Of eloquent smiles and tears.

My Second was 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; .
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,

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