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XXIV.

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale)
A Serf that crossed the intervening vale,[286]
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn,
And nearly veiled in mist her waning horn;
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood,
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 1200
Passed by the river that divides the plain
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain:
He heard a tramp--a horse and horseman broke
From out the wood--before him was a cloak
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow,
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time,
And some foreboding that it might be crime,
Himself unheeded watched the stranger's course,
Who reached the river, bounded from his horse, 1210
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore,
Heaved up the bank, and dashed it from the shore,
Then paused--and looked--and turned--and seemed to watch,
And still another hurried glance would snatch,
And follow with his step the stream that flowed,
As if even yet too much its surface showed;
At once he started--stooped--around him strown
The winter floods had scattered heaps of stone:
Of these the heaviest thence he gathered there,
And slung them with a more than common care. 1220
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean;
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
And something glittered starlike on the vest;
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk,
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk:[lb]
It rose again, but indistinct to view,
And left the waters of a purple hue,
Then deeply disappeared: the horseman gazed
Till ebbed the latest eddy it had raised; 1230
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed,
And instant spurred him into panting speed.
His face was masked--the features of the dead,
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread;
But if in sooth a Star its bosom bore,
Such is the badge that Knighthood ever wore,
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a morn.
If thus he perished, Heaven receive his soul!
His undiscovered limbs to ocean roll; 1240
And charity upon the hope would dwell
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. [lc]

XXV.

And Kaled--Lara--Ezzelin, are gone,
Alike without their monumental stone!
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean
From lingering where her Chieftain's blood had been:
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious would you tear her from the spot
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 1250
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
But left to waste her weary moments there,
She talked all idly unto shapes of air,
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints,
And woos to listen to her fond complaints:
And she would sit beneath the very tree
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee;
And in that posture where she saw him fall,
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; 1260
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair,
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there,
And fold, and press it gently to the ground,
As if she staunched anew some phantom's wound. [ld]
Herself would question, and for him reply;
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
From some imagined Spectre in pursuit;
Then seat her down upon some linden's root,
And hide her visage with her meagre hand,
Or trace strange characters along the sand-- 1270
This could not last--she lies by him she loved;
Her tale untold--her truth too dearly proved.

HEBREW MELODIES



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. [287]

I.

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

III.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

_June_ 12, 1814.



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT.

I.

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept,[le]
The King of men, the loved of Heaven!
Which Music hallowed while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given--
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It softened men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
That felt not--fired not to the tone,
Till David's Lyre grew mightier than his Throne!

II.

It told the triumphs of our King,[lf]
It wafted glory to our God;
It made our gladdened valleys ring,
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode! [288]
Since then, though heard on earth no more,[lg]
Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.



IF THAT HIGH WORLD.

I.

If that high world,[289] which lies beyond
Our own, surviving Love endears;
If there the cherished heart be fond,
The eye the same, except in tears--
How welcome those untrodden spheres!
How sweet this very hour to die!