Again he heard, as oft in youth, the bee Wind his blithe horn in pleasant harmony- He heard the echoes of the torrent swell Along the peaked rocks of Apenzell; Again he saw the bounding chamois roam, Scared by the eagle from his Alpine home; He heard Lausanne's still waters gently creep, And move and murmur to the mountain's steep: While the pale moon, from out her cloudy cave, Dropp'd her still anchor in the twilight wave.
'Tis merry in greenwood, thus runs the old lay, In the gladsome month of lively May, When the wild birds' song on stem and spray
Invites to forest bower;
Then rears the ash his airy crest,
Then shines the birch in silver vest,
And the beech in glistening leaves is dress'd, And dark between shews the oak's proud breast, Like a chieftain's frowning tower; Though a thousand branches join their screen, Yet the broken sun-beams glance between, And tip the leaves with lighter green, With brighter tints the flower:
Dull is the heart that loves not then The deep recess of the wild-wood glen, Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den, When the sun is in his power.
Less merry, perchance, is the fading leaf That follows so soon on the gather'd sheaf,
When the green-wood loses the name;
Silent is then the forest bound,
Save the red-breast's note, and the rustling sound Of frost-nipt leaves that are dropping round, Or the deep-mouth'd cry of the distant hound That opens on his game:
Yet then, too, I love the forest wide, Whether the sun in splendour ride And gild its many-coloured side; Or whether the soft and silvery haze, In vapoury folds, o'er the landscape strays, And half involves the woodland maze, Like an early widow's veil,
Where wimpling tissue from the gaze The form half hides and half betrays, Of beauty wan and pale.
Fair Metelill was a woodland maid, Her father a rover of green-wood shade, By forest statutes undismay'd,
Who liv'd by bow and quiver. Well known was Wulfstane's archery, By merry Tyne both on moor and lea, Through wooded Weardale's glens so free, Well beside Stanhope's wild-wood tree, And well on Ganlesse river.
Yet free though he trespass'd on wood-land game, More known and more feared was the wizard fame
Of Jutta of Rookhope, the outlaw's dame; Feared when she frown'd was her eye of flame;
More fear'd when in wrath she laugh'd,
For then, 'twas said, more fatal true,
To its dread aim her spell-glance flew,
Than when from Wulfstane's bended yew Sprung forth the grey goose shaft.
Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair, So heaven decreed, a daughter fair;
None brighter crown'd the bed, In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince, Nor hath, perchance, a lovelier since In this fair isle been bred.
And nought of fraud, or ire, or ill, Was known to gentle Metelill,
A simple maiden she;
The spells in dimpled smiles that lie, And a downcast blush, and the darts that fly With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye,
Were her arins and witchery. So young, so simple was she yet, She scarce could childhood's joys forget, And still she loved, in secret set
Beneath the green-wood tree,
To plait the rushy coronet,
And braid with flowers her locks of jet, As when in infancy ;—
Yet could that heart so simple, prove The early dawn of stealing love: Ah! gentle maid, beware! The power who now, so mild a guest, Gives dangerous yet delicious zest To the calm pleasures of thy breast, Will soon, a tyrant o'er thy rest, Let none his empire share.
One morn, in kirtle green array'd Deep in the wood the maiden stray'd,
And where a fountain sprung,
She sate her down, unseen, to thread
The scarlet berry's mimic braid,
And while the beads she strung,
Like the blithe lark, whose carol gay, Gives a good morrow to the day, So lightsomely she sung.
"Lord William was born in gilded bower, The heir of Wilton's lofty tower; Yet better loves Lord William now To roam beneath wild Rookhope's brow; And William has lived where ladies fair, With gawds and jewels deck their hair, Yet better loves the dew-drops still That pearl the locks of Metelill.
"The pious Palmer loves, I wis, Saint Cuthbert's hallowed beads to kiss ; But I, though simple girl I be, Might have such homage paid to me: For did Lord William see me suit This necklace of the bramble's fruit, He fain-but must not have his will,- Would kiss the beads of Metelill,
"My nurse has told me many a tale, How vows of love are weak and frail; My mother says that courtly youth, By rustic maid means seldom sooth; What should they mean? it cannot be, That such a warning's meant for me, For nought-oh! nought of fraud or ill Can William mean to Metelill!"
SOFTLY through the pomegranate groves, Came the gentle song of the doves; Shone the fruit in the evening light, Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright; Shook the date trees each tufted head, As the passing winds their green nuts shed; And like dark columns, amid the sky The giant palms ascended on high; And the mosque's gilded minaret Glistened and glanced as the daylight set. O'er the town a crimson haze
Gathered and hung of the evening's rays; And far beyond, like molten gold, The burning sands of the desert rolled; Far to the left, the sky and sea
Mingled their gay immensity;
And with flapping sail, and the idle prow, The vessels threw their shades below. Far down the beach, where a cypress grove Casts its shade round a little cove, Darkling and green, with just a space For the stars to shine on the water's face, A small bark lay, waiting for night, And its breeze to waft and hide its flight. Sweet is the burthen, and lovely the freight, For which those furled up sails await, To a garden, fair as those
Where the glory of the rose
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