And high and haughty was the lay,
That sweetly flow'd in Provence tongue;
Of tourneys, lords and ladies gay,
A wondrous tale the minstrel sung.
Boldly he struck the martial strain;
His manly voice was deep and clear;
And rapture fires the hardy train,
Again their native tongue to hear!
The polish'd accents as they fall,
(Long used to Saxon strains uncouth)
The fields of Normandy recall,
And renovate their lusty youth.
O then each well-remember'd cot,
Each blooming maid they lov'd so well,
Their earliest and their happiest lot!-
Again their steel-clad bosoms swell.
Sweet was the strain. Enchanting theme!
Of happy love the minstrel sung;
To the rapt poet's blissful dream
The magic chords responsive rung.
But soon they pause; and sad and low,
He touch'd a wildly plaintive air,
In thrilling tones of deepest woe
He told the hapless lover's care.
He ceas'd; and plaudits loud were made,
Grateful he rais'd his down-cast eye,
But scarce his modest thanks he paid
Ere the half-utter'd accents die.
For that dark eye had careless glanc'd
To the high throne of feudal state;
And hov'ring there, inspir'd, entranc'd,
A lovely vision speechless sate.
O ne'er was form so witching fair!
Sweetly through recent tears she smil'd,
Loose and unbound her sunny hair
Flow'd round her sylphid figure wild.
Soft was her eye of heav'nly blue;
Her cheek was like the opening rose,
Wet with the morning's pearly dew,
And pure her bosom's living snows,
In manly beauty's youthful glow
Was he, who touch'd the tuneful string, Dark clustering o'er his polish'd brow,
Hung ringlets like the raven's wing.
Stately his form, and proud his mien;
High genius sparkled in his eye,
Soft'ning from glances wild and keen,
To smiles of cherub infancy.
They saw, they lov'd-The harp still rung
To airs of love in Mitford tow'r.
Of war, of fame, no more he sung,
But high-born beauty's gentle pow'r.
Nor wealth, nor rank on Albert smil'd;
He knew no father's fostering care,
A widow'd mother rear'd the child,
Deep in the wilds of Provence fair.
But far from his romantic home
He sought Italia's blissful strand,
For Albert long'd the world to roam,
To visit every distant land.
"O he had wander'd far and wide
Through vales, where Arno's waters flow,
"Seen the bright dames, Iberia's pride,
"And Grecian nymphs with necks of snow!
"But not in Tempe's classic shade
"Had he so sweet a valley seen;
"Nor e'er beheld so fair a maid,
"As she who tripp'd o'er Mitford green."
The blushing girl, with accents mild
And gentle chidings, check'd his praise:
But still she listen'd, still she smil'd,
Whilst Albert pour'd his am'rous lays.
No hopes had they the Baron proud
Would e'er the minstrel's vows approve,
For noble youths to Sybille bow'd,
And sought the blue-ey'd maiden's love.
Gay summer now was fading fast;
The robin twitter'd from the wood,
And scatter'd by th' autumnal blast,
The yellow leaves sail'd down the flood.
Still the fond youth his passion prest, A smile half lit her down-cast eye; "O! if of Sybille's heart possest,
"Albert can ev'ry care defy!
"Far from the scenes of pride and wealth, "We'll seek some wood-embosom'd cot, "Content, and innocence, and health,
"With happy love, shall crown our lot.
"At morn these sinewy limbs I'll strain,
"(How blest to labour, love, for thee!)
"At ev'ning with the village train
"We'll join in rustic revelry.
"Haste then, my fair! a holy priest
"E'en now at Mary's chapel waits;
66 Thy father loiters at the feast,
"The weary warder leaves the gates.
"My Sybille, come!" Her trembling feet
Can scarce her slender form support;
Hope, fear, and love, contending meet,
Scarce can she cross the echoing court.
"My Sybille, come!" Prophetic fears
The maiden's gentle bosom move;
Her azure eyes are dimm'd with tears,
Tears soon dispell'd by mighty love!
No more she turns; to Mitford's tow'rs
No more her ling'ring footsteps stray;
Lightly she trips through Bothall's bow'rs,
Ting'd by the parting beam of day.
There in the virgin's chapel fair,
By Wansbeck's swiftly-flowing tide,
The holy father blest the pair,
And Albert clasp'd his blushing bride.
'Twas night, and darkness veil'd the wood,
Save where the silver moon-beam shone,
Danc'd upon Wansbeck's rippling flood,
Or kiss'd the chapel's holy stone.
And nought the solemn stillness broke,
Save the clear water's rushing sound,
The night-breeze murm'ring through the oak,
Or the dark bat quick flitting round.
But soon a thousand torches shine!
Wild shouts the sleeping echoes rouse!
And Sybille sinks by Mary's shrine,
Where late she pledg'd her stolen vows.
Soon, soon they pierce the holy walls!
The minstrel draws his trusty blade;
"Revenge!" the madden'd father calls,
And furious spurns the weeping maid.
They fight-the husband and the sire!
They fight-and desp'rate is the strife;
Still fiercer glows their mutual ire,
Nor heeds the daughter and the wife.
Frantic she darts between the foes
The Baron's sword is dipp'd in gore, O'er her fair form the life-blood flows, And Sybille falls-to rise no more!
Who is that chief on Judah's strand,
Who, reckless of the mortal wound,
Hews desp'rate 'mid the Paynim band,
Strewing with mangled heaps the ground?
And who is he, whose raven hair
Is tann'd by sun and wet with rain,
Who lies on Mary's pavement bare,
Bathing with tears the bloody stain?
That chief-may Heaven its mercy shew!
That wretched youth in woe unmov'd—
That chief is he who gave the blow,
That youth is he whom Sybille lov'd.
[From Mr. SOUTHEY'S KEHAMA.]
HEN in the Ship of Heaven, Ereenia laid
The waking, wondering Maid;
The Ship of Heaven, instinct with thought, display'd
Its living sail, and glides along the sky.
On either side in wavy tide,
The clouds of morn along its path divide;
The Winds who swept in wild career on high,
Before its presence check their charmed force;
The Winds that loitering lagg'd along their course,
Around the living bark enamour'd play,
Swell underneath the sail, and sing before its way.
That Bark, in shape, was like the furrowed shell
Wherein the Sea-Nymphs to their parent-king,
On festal-day, their duteous offerings bring.
Its hue?... Go watch the last green light
Ere Evening yields the western sky to Night;
Or fix upon the Sun thy strenuous sight
Till thou has reach'd its orb of chrysolite.
The sail from end to end display'd
Bent, like a rainbow, o'er the Maid.
An Angel's head, with visual eye,
Through trackless space, directs its chosen way;
Nor aid of wing, nor foot, nor fin,
Requires to voyage o'er the obedient sky.
Smooth as the swan, when not a breeze at even
Disturbs the surface of the silver stream,
Through air and sunshine sails the Ship of Heaven.
Recumbent there the Maiden glides along
On her aerial way,
How swift she feels not, though the swiftest wind
Had flagg'd in flight behind.
Motionless as a sleeping babe she lay,
An all serene in mind,
Feeling no fear; for that ethereal air
With such new life and joyance fill'd her heart,
Fear could not enter there;
For sure she deem'd her mortal part was o'er,
And she was sailing to the heavenly shore;
And that angelic form, who mov'd beside,
Was some good Spirit sent to be her guide.
Daughter of Earth! therein thou deem'st aright,
And never yet did form more beautiful,
In dreams of night descending from on high,
Bless the religious Virgin's gifted sight,
Nor, like a vision of delight,
Rise on the raptur'd Poet's inward eye.
Of human form divine was he,
The immortal Youth of Heaven who floated by,
Even such as that divinest form shall be
In those blest stages of our onward race,
When no infirmity,
Low thought, nor base desire, nor wasting care,
Deface the semblance of our heavenly sire.
The wings of Eagle or of Cherubim
Had seem'd unworthy him:
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