Where hermit old might pace and chaunt
As in a minster's pile.
From underneath its leafy screen,
And from the twilight shade,
You pass at once into a green,
A green and lightsome glade.
And there Lord Julian sate on steed;
Behind him, in a round,
Stood knight and squire, and menial train;
Against the leash the greyhounds strain;
The horses paw'd the ground.
When up the alley green, Sir Hugh
Spurr'd in upon the sward,
And mute, without a word, did he
Fall in behind his lord.
Lord Julian turn'd his steed half round."What! doth not Alice deign
To accept your loving convoy, knight?
Or doth she fear our woodland sleight,
And joins us on the plain?"
With stifled tones the knight replied,
And look'd askance on either side,-
"Nay, let the hunt proceed!—
The Lady's message that I bear,
I guess would scantly please your ear,
And less deserves your heed.
"You sent betimes.
"I came unlook'd for: and, it seem'd,
In an unwelcome hour;
And found the daughter of Du Clos
Within the lattic'd bower.
"But hush! the rest may wait. If lost,
No great loss, I divine;
And idle words will better suit
A fair maid's lips than mine."
"God's wrath! speak out, man," Julian cried, O'ermastered by the sudden smart ;— And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude, The knight his subtle shift pursued."Scowl not at me; command my skill, To lure your hawk back, if you will, But not a woman's heart.
"Go! (said she) tell him,-slow is sure;
Fair speed his shafts to-day!
I follow here a stronger lure,
And chase a gentler prey.'
"The game, pardie, was full in sight,
That then did, if I saw aright,
The fair dame's eyes engage: For turning, as I took my ways, I saw them fixed with steadfast Full on her wanton page."
The last word of the traitor knight
It had but entered Julian's ear,From two o'erarching oaks between, With glist'ning helm-like cap is seen, Borne on in giddy cheer,
A youth, that ill his steed can guide;
Yet with reverted face doth ride,
As answering to a voice,
That seems at once to laugh and chide-
"Not mine, dear mistress," still he cried,
""Tis this mad filly's choice."
With sudden bound, beyond the boy,
See! see! that face of hope and joy,
That regal front! those cheeks aglow!
Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen,
A quiver'd Dian to have been,
Thou lovely child of old Du Clos!
Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood,
Swift as a dream, from forth the wood,
Sprang on the plighted Maid!
With fatal aim, and frantic force,
The shaft was hurl'd!-a lifeless corse,
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse,
Lies bleeding on the glade.
KNOW'ST thou the land where the pale citrons grow,
The golden fruits in darker foliage glow?
Soft blows the wind that breathes from that blue sky!
Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high!
Know'st thou it well that land, beloved Friend?
Thither with thee, O thither would I wend!
Anxious to associate the name of a most dear and honoured friend with my own, I solicited and obtained the permission of Professor J. H. GREEN to permit the insertion of the two following poems, by him composed.-S. T. COLERIDGE
MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD.
THE house is a prison, the school-room's a cell;
Leave study and books for the upland and dell;
Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care;
Sally forth! Sally forth! Let us breathe the fresh air!
The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue;
The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew;
Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light,
And here and there turns his eye piercing and bright;
Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car,
With smiles to the morn,-for he means to go far;-
While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his levee,
Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy.
Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling between
Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green,
With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please,
Sprays, petals and leaflets, that nod in the breeze,
With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the way,
And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray,
Itself its own home;-far away! far away!
The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower;
The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower;
The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill,
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill;
The birds carol gladly!-the lark mounts on high;
The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye,
And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well,
Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell.
The hunt is abroad:-hark! the horn sounds its note,
And seems to invite us to regions remote.
The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound,
And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound;
Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he bounds,
To the whoop of the huntsman and tongue of the hounds
Then stay not within, for on such a blest day
We can never quit home, while with Nature we stray; far away, far away!
THE feverous dream is past! and I awake,
Alone and joyless in my prison-cell,
Again to ply the never-ending toil,
And bid the task-worn memory weave again
The tangled threads, and ravell'd skein of thought,
Disjointed fragments of my care-worn life!
The mirror of my soul,-ah! when again
To welcome and reflect calm joy and hope!-
Again subsides, and smooths its turbid swell,
Late surging in the sweep of frenzy's blast,-
And the sad forms of scenes and deeds long past
Blend into spectral shapes and deathlike life,
And pass in silent, stern procession !—
The storm is past;-but in the pause and hush,
Nor calm nor tranquil joy, nor peace are mine;
My spirit is rebuk'd !—and like a mist,
Despondency in grey cold mantle clad,
In phantom form gigantic floats!—
That dream, That dream, that dreadful dream, the potent spell, That calls to life the phantoms of the past,
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