It ceased. Advancing on the sound,
A steep ascent the Wanderer found,
And then a turret stair:

Nor climb'd he far its steepy round

Till fresher blew the air,
And next a welcome glimpse was given,
That cheer'd him with the light of heaven.
At length his toil had won

A lofty hall with trophies dress'd,
Where, as to greet imperial guest,

Bid your vaulted echoes moan, As the dreaded step they own.

"Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell, Hear the foot-fall! mark it well! Spread your dusty wings abroad, Boune ye for your homeward road!

"It is His, the first who e'er Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; HIS, who hath the snares defied

Was bound with golden zone.

XXXV.

Of Europe seem'd the damsels all;
The first a nymph of lively Gaul,
Whose easy step and laughing eye
Her borrow'd air of awe belie;

The next a maid of Spain,
Dark-eyed, dark-hair'd, sedate, yet bold;
White ivory skin and tress of gold,
Her shy and bashful comrade told

For daughter of Almaine. These maidens bore a royal robe, With crown, with sceptre, and with globe, Emblems of empery;

The fourth a space behind them stood, And leant upon a harp, in mood

Of minstrel ecstasy.

Of merry England she, in dress
Like ancient British Druidess.
Her hair an azure fillet bound,
Her graceful vesture swept the ground,
And, in her hand display'd,

A crown did that fourth Maiden hold,
But unadorn'd with gems and gold,
Of glossy laurel made.

XXXVI.

At once to brave De Vaux knelt down
These foremost Maidens three,
And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and crown,

Liegedom and seignorie,
O'er many a region wide and fair,
Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir;

But homage would he none:-
"Rather," he said, "De Vaux would ride,
A Warden of the Border-side,
In plate and mail, than, robed in pride,
A monarch's empire own;

Rather, far rather, would he be
A free-born knight of England free,

Than sit on Despot's throne."

So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid,
As starting from a trance,
Upon the harp her finger laid;
Her magic touch the chords obey'd,

Their soul awaked at once;

SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN. "Quake to your foundations deep, Stately Towers, and Banner'd Keep,

'Quake to your foundations deep, Bastion huge, and Turret steep! Tremble, Keep! and totter, Tower! This is Gyneth's waking hour."

XXXVII.

Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight
Has reach'd a bower, where milder light
Through crimson curtains fell;
Such soften'd shade the hill receives,
Her purple veil when twilight leaves
Upon its western swell.
That bower, the gazer to bewitch,
Hath wondrous store of rare and rich
As e'er was seen with eye;
For there by magic skill, I wis,
Form of each thing that living is

Was limn'd in proper dye.
All seem'd to sleep-the timid hare
On form, the stag upon his lair,
The eagle in her eyrie fair

Between the earth and sky.
But what of pictured rich and rare
Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where,
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair,

He saw King Arthur's child! Doubt, and anger, and dismay, From her brow had pass'd away. Forgot was that fell tourney-day,

For, as she slept, she smiled: It seem'd that the repentant Seer Her sleep of many a hundred year With gentle dreams beguiled.

XXXVIII.

That form of maiden loveliness,

"Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, That ivory chair, that sylvan dress, The arms and ankles bare, express

Of Lyulph's tale the truth. Still upon her garment's hem Vanoc's blood made purple gem, And the warder of command Cumber'd still her sleeping hand; Still her dark locks dishevell'd flow From net of pearl o'er breast of snow; And so fair the slumberer seems, That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams, Vapid all and void of might, Hiding half her charms from sight.

Motionless a while he stands,
Folds his arms and clasps his hands,
Trembling in his fitful joy,
Doubtful how he should destroy

Long-enduring spell;
Doubtful, too, when slowly rise
Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes,

What these eyes shall tell.-
"St. George! St. Mary! can it be,
That they will kindly look on me?"
XXXIX.

Gently, lo! the Warrior kneels,
Soft that lovely hand he steals,
Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp-
But the warder leaves her grasp;

Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder,
Gyneth startles from her sleep,
Totters Tower, and trembles Keep,

Burst the Castle-walls asunder! Fierce and frequent were the shocks,Melt the magic halls away;

-But beneath their mystic rocks, In the arms of bold De Vaux,

Safe the princess lay;

Safe and free from magic power,
Blushing like the rose's flower

Opening to the day;

[bound
And round the Champion's brows were
The crown that Druidess had wound,
Of the green laurel-bay.

And this was what remain'd of all
The wealth of each enchanted hall,

The Garland and the Dame:

But where should Warrior seek the meed, Due to high worth for daring deed, Except from LOVE and FAME!

CONCLUSION.

I.

MY LUCY, when the Maid is won,
The Minstrel's task, thou know'st, is done;
And to require of bard

That to his dregs the tale should run,
Were ordinance too hard.
Our lovers, briefly be it said,
Wedded as lovers wont to wed,

When tale or play is o'er;

Lived long and blest, loved fond and true, And saw a numerous race renew

The honours that they bore.
Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays,
In morning mist or evening maze,
Along the mountain lone,
That fairy fortress often mocks
His gaze upon the castled rocks
Of the Valley of Saint John;
But never man since brave De Vaux
The charmed portal won.

'Tis now a vain illusive show,
That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow,
Or the fresh breeze hath blown.
II.

But see, my love, where far below
Our lingering wheels are moving slow,
The whiles, up-gazing still,

Our menials eye our steepy way, Marvelling, perchance, what whim can stay

Our steps, when eve is sinking grey
On this gigantic hill.

So think the vulgar-Life and time
Ring all their joys in one dull chime
Of luxury and ease;
And, O! beside these simple knaves,
How many better born are slaves

To such coarse joys as these,-
Dead to the nobler sense that glows
When Nature's grander scenes unclose!
But, Lucy, we will love them yet,
The mountain's misty coronet,

The greenwood, and the wold; And love the more, that of their maze Adventure high of other days

By ancient bards is told, Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale, Some moral truth in fiction's veil: Nor love them less, that o'er the hill The evening breeze, as now, comes chill;-My love shall wrap her warm, And, fearless of the slippery way, While safe she trips the heathy brae,

Shall hang on Arthur's arm.

ABBOTSFORD, 1815.

I.

FAIR Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning wind,
We yet may hear the hour
Peal'd over orchard and canal,
With voice prolong'd and measured fall,

From proud Saint Michael's tower; Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now, Where the tall beeches' glossy bough,

For many a league around, With birch and darksome oak between, Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, Of tangled forest ground.

Stems planted close by stems defy
The adventurous foot-the curious eye
For access seeks in vain;
And the brown tapestry of leaves,
Strew'd on the blighted ground, receives

Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.
No opening glade dawns on our way,
No streamlet, glancing to the ray,

Our woodland path has cross'd;
And the straight causeway which we tread,
Prolongs a line of dull arcade,
Unvarying through the unvaried shade,
Until in distance lost.