Telling her dreams to jealous Fear!

Where was it then, the sociable sprite

That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish!
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish,
Itself a substance by no other right
But that it intercepted Reason's light;
It dimm'd his eye, it darken'd on his brow,
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow!
Thank Heaven! 'tis not so now.

O bliss of blissful hours!

The boon of Heaven's decreeing,

While yet in Eden's bowers

Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate!

The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing, They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate!

Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose!

Late autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows
When passion's flowers all fall or fade;

If this were ever his, in outward being,
Or but his own true love's projected shade,
Now that at length by certain proof he knows,
That whether real or a magic show,

Whate'er it was, it is no longer so;
Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low,
Yet, Lady! deem him not unblest:
The certainty that struck hope dead,
Hath left contentment in her stead:
And that is next to best!

ALICE DU CLOS:

OR THE FORKED TONGUE. A BALLAD.

"One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft: and a slit tongue be his blazon!"-Caucasian Proverb.

"THE Sun is not yet risen,

But the dawn lies red on the dew:

Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away,

Is seeking, Lady, for you.

Put on your dress of

green,

Your buskins and your quiver;

Lord Julian is a hasty man,

Long waiting brook'd he never.

I dare not doubt him, that he means
To wed you on a day,

Your lord and master for to be,

And you his lady gay.

O Lady! throw your book aside!

I would not that my Lord should chide."

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight

To Alice, child of old Du Clos,

As spotless fair, as airy light

As that moon-shiny doe,

The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest,
For ere the lark had left his nest,

She in the garden bower below
Sate loosely wrapped in maiden white,
Her face half drooping from the sight,
A snow-drop on a tuft of snow!

O close your eyes, and strive to see
The studious maid, with book on knee,-
Ah! earliest opened flower;

While yet with keen unblunted light

The morning star shone opposite

The lattice of her bower-
Alone of all the starry host,
As if in prideful scorn

Of flight and fear he stay'd behind,
To brave th' advancing morn.

O! Alice could read passing well,
And she was conning then
Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves,
And gods, and beasts, and men.

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein,
It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain;
Yet never from the book

She rais'd her head, nor did she deign
The knight a single look.

"Off, traitor friend! how dar'st thou fix

Thy wanton gaze on me?

And why, against my earnest suit,

Does Julian send by thee?

"Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure:

Fair speed his shafts to-day!

I follow here a stronger lure,
And chase a gentler prey."

She said: and with a baleful smile
The vassal knight reel'd off—

Like a huge billow from a bark
Toil'd in the deep sea-trough,

That shouldering sideways in mid plunge,
Is travers'd by a flash.

And staggering onward, leaves the ear
With dull and distant crash.

And Alice sate with troubled mien

A moment; for the scoff was keen,
And thro' her veins did shiver!
Then rose and donn'd her dress of green,
Her buskins and her quiver.

There stands the flow'ring may-thorn tree!
From thro' the veiling mist you see

The black and shadowy stem;-
Smit by the sun the mist in glee
Dissolves to lightsome jewelry-
Each blossom hath its gem!

With tear-drop glittering to a smile,
The gay maid on the garden-stile

Mimics the hunter's shout.

"Hip! Florian, hip! To horse, to horse! Go, bring the palfrey out.

"My Julian's out with all his clan,

And, bonny boy, you wis,

Lord Julian is a hasty man,

Who comes late, comes amiss.”

Now Florian was a stripling squire,
A gallant boy of Spain,

That toss'd his head in joy and pride,
Behind his Lady fair to ride,

But blush'd to hold her train.

The huntress is in her dress of green,-
And forth they go; she with her bow,
Her buskins and her quiver!—

The squire no younger e'er was seen-
With restless arm and laughing een,
He makes his javelin quiver.

And had not Ellen stay'd the race,
And stopp'd to see, a moment's space,
The whole great globe of light
Give the last parting kiss-like touch
To the eastern ridge, it lack'd not much,
They had o'erta'en the knight.

It chanced that up the covert lane,
Where Julian waiting stood,

A neighbour knight prick'd on to join
The huntsmen in the wood.

And with him must Lord Julian go,
Tho' with an anger'd mind:
Betroth'd not wedded to his bride,

In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride,
Excuse to stay behind.

He bit his lip, he wrung his glove,
He look'd around, he look'd above,

But pretext none could find or frame!

Alas! alas! and well-a-day!

It grieves me sore to think, to say,

That names so seldom meet with Love,

Yet Love wants courage without a name!

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees
O'er-branching, made an aisle,