THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL. THIS charming ballad was composed a few years since, by Mr. Wiffen, a member of the Society of Friends, and was published originally in one of the London Annuals. It is founded on a popular supers ition, and a family tradition. The Musgraves of Eden-Hall in Cumberland, preserve to this day an old drinking glass, enamelled in colours, said to have been seized by one of their ancestors from a company of fairies, who were sporting in a garden. After an ineffectual struggle to recover Lit, the fairies are said to have vanished into thin air, repeating the refrain, Scarce had the night's pale Lady staid Her chariot o'er th' accustomed oak, Than murmurs in the mystic shade The slumberer in his trance awoke. Stiff stood his courser's mane with dreadHis crouching greyhound whined with fear; And quaked the wild fern round his head, As though some passing ghost were near. Yet calmly shone the moonshine pale On glade and hillock, flower and tree; And sweet the gurgling nightingale Poured forth her music, wild and free. Sudden her notes fell hushed, and near Flutes breathe, horns warble, bridles ring; And, in gay cavalcade, appear The Fairies round their Fairy King. Twelve hundred Elfin knights and more Were there in silk and steel arrayed; And each a ruby helmet wore, And each a diamond lance displayed. And pursuivants with wands of gold, And minstrels scarfed and laurelled fair, Heralds with blazoned flags unrolled, And trumpet-tuning dwarfs were there. Behind, twelve hundred ladies coy, On milk white steeds, brought up their Their kerchiefs of the crimson soy, Some wore, in fanciful costume, A sapphire or a topaz crown ; And some a hern's or peacock's plume, Which their own tercel-gents struck down. And some wore masks, and some wore hoods, Some turbans rich, some ouches rare; And some sweet woodbine from the woods, To bind their undulating hair. With all gay tints the darksome shade Their steeds they quit ;-the knights ad vance, And in quaint order, one by one, Each leads his lady forth to dance,The timbrels sound-the charm's be gun. Where'er they trip, where'er they tread, But falls within their charmed rings. The dance lead up, the dance lead down, The dance lead round our favorite tree; If now one lady wears a frown, A false and froward shrew is she! There's not a smile we Fays let fall But swells the tide of human bliss; And if good luck attends our call, 'Tis due on such sweet night as this. 'The dance lead up, the dance lead down, Thus sing the Fays;-Lord Musgrave hears Their shrill sweet song, and eager eyes The radiant show, despite the fears That to his bounding bosom rise. But soft-the minstrelsy declines; The morris ceases-sound the shaums! And quick, whilst many a taper shines, The heralds rank their airy swarms. Titania waves her crystal wand; And underneath the greenwood bower, Tables, and urns, and goblets stand, Metheglin, nectar, fruit, and flower. To banquet ho!' the seneschals Bid the brisk tribes, that, thick as bees At sound of cymbals, to their calls Consort beneath the leafy trees. |