The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend To save from shame and hrall: Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, I hear a voice, but none are there; The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne And, ringing, springs from brand and But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight-to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, Swells up, and shakes and falls. By bridge and ford, by park and pale, EDWARD GRAY. SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Against her father's and mother's will: By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 'Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: "You're too slight and fickle," I said, "To trouble the heart of Edward Gray." 'There I put my face in the grass— Whisper'd, "Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!" 'Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, "Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray!" 'Love may come, and love may gʊ, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 'Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MADE AT THE COCK. O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock. But let it not be such as that But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. But may she still be kind, Till all be ripe and rotten. I pledge her, and she comes and dips These favour'd lips of mine; I pledge her silent at the board; Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble; Begins to move and tremble. Thro' many an hour of summer suns, 126 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; My college friendships glimmer. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, I will not cramp my heart, nor take There must be stormy weather; All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grapes; Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in man and maid; But tho' the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with stiffer. For since I came to live and learn, This wheel within my head, Unsubject to confusion, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, Thro' every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Had relish fiery-new, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, Or stow'd, when classic Canning died, In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She answer'd to my call, This whole wide earth of light and shade She changes with that mood or this, Comes out, a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar, And set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro' a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe, Is all-in-all to all: She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The pint, you brought me, was the best To each his perfect pint of stout, That ever came from pipe. His proper chop to each. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. He looks not like the common breed The Cock was of a larger egg And cramm'd a plumper crop ; Crow'd lustier late and early, A private life was all his joy, A something-pottle-bodied boy For, something duller than at first, Half fearful that, with self at strife, I leave an empty flask : So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather'd up; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the vacant cup : He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, And others' follies teach us not, Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go? One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man As any born of woman. Nor much their wisdom teaches; And mcst, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches. Ah, let the rusty theme alone! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone; 'Tis gone, and let it go. Tis gone a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern-door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters; The tavern-hours of mighty wits— 127 I ranged too high what draws me down Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Into the common day? Is it the weight of that half-crown, Which I shall have to pay? Had yet their native glow : Nor yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show; |