Which, filling, consecrates the human breast. XLVI. THE SOMNAMBULIST. LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower† Fit music for a solemn vale! And holier seems the ground Not far from that fair site whereon *See Note. † A pleasure-house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. FORCE is the word used in the Lake District for Waterfall. As story says, in antique days A stern-browed house appeared; There set, and guarded well; To win this bright Bird from her cage, Full happy season, when was known, Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen, Thy brook, and bowers of holly; Where Passion caught what Nature taught, That all but love is folly; Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play; Doubt came not, nor regret, To trouble hours that winged their way, As if through an immortal day Whose sun could never set. But in old times Love dwelt not long Sequestered with repose; Best throve the fire of chaste desire, They parted. - Well with him it fared The thirst of fame his warrant : On woman's quiet hours; Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield, And needlework and flowers. Yet blest was Emma when she heard And high her blushes mounted; Or when a bold heroic lay She warbled from full heart; Delightful blossoms for the May Of absence! but they will not stay, Born only to depart. Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills Whatever path he chooses; As if his orb, that owns no curb, He comes not back; an ampler space He ranges on from place to place, But what her fancy breeds. His fame may spread, but in the past Clear sight she has of what he was, And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted Knight?” The tear in answer flows; Month falls on month with heavier weight; In sleep she sometimes walked abroad, Deep sighs with quick words blending, Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen With fancied spots contending; But she is innocent of blood,— The moon is not more pure That shines aloft, while through the wood She thrids her way, the sounding Flood While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, And owls alone are waking, In white arrayed, glides on the Maid, By whom on this still night descried? A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, As if they from the holly-tree What means the Spectre? Why intent Thought Eglamore, by which I swore Here am I, and to-morrow's sun To her I left shall prove As when a circuit has been run So from the spot whereon he stood |