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And such joys as these she'll bring

Honour to the Lincoln green! Let the winged Fancy roam,

Honour to the archer keen!
Pleasure never is at home.

Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!

Honour to bold Robin Hood,

Sleeping in the underwood !

Honour to maid Marian, No! those days are gone away,

And to all the Sherwood-clan! And their hours are old and gray,

Though their days have hurried by,

Let us two a burden try.
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
of the leaves of many years:

Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen north, and chilling east,

So ended Saturn; and the God of the Sea,
Sounded tempests to the feast

Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, Of the forest's whispering fleeces,

But cogitation in his watery shades, Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

Arose, with locks not oozy, and began,

In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring tongue No! the bugle sounds no more,

Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. And the twanging bow no more;

“Oye, whom wrath consumes! who, passion-stung, Silent is the ivory shrill,

Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies! Past the heath and up the hill;

Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, There is no mid-forest laugh,

My voice is not a bellows unto ire. Where lone Echo gives the half

Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof To some wight, amaz'd to hear

How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop:
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

And in the proof much comfort will I give,

ye will take that comfort in its truth. On the fairest time of June

We fall by course of nature's law, not force You may go, with sun or moon,

Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou Or the seven stars to light you,

Hast sifted well the atom-universe; Or the polar ray to right you;

But for this reason, that thou art the king, But you never may behold

And only blind from sheer supremacy, Little John, or Robin bold;

One avenue was shaded from thine eyes, Never one, of all the clan,

Through which I wandered to eternal truth. Thrumming on an empty can

And first, as thou wast not the first of powers, Some old hunting dirty, while

So art thou not the last; it cannot be: He doth his green way beguile

Thou art not the beginning nor the end. To fair hostess Merriment,

From chaos and parental darkness came Down beside the pasture Trent;

Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil, For he left the merry tale,

That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends Messenger for spicy ale.

Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came, Gone, the merry morris din;

And with it light, and light, engendering Gone, the song of Gamelyn;

Upon its own producer, forth with touch'd

The whole enormous matter into life.
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the " grene shawe;"

Upon that very hour, our parentage,
All are gone away and past!

The heavens and the earth, were manifest: And if Robin should be cast

Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race, Sudden from his turfed grave,

Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. And if Marian should have

Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain; Once again her forest days,

O folly! for to bear all naked truths, She would weep, and he would craze:

And to envisage circumstance, all calm, He would swear, for all his oaks,

That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well! Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,

As heaven and earth are fairer, fairer far Have rotted on the briny seas;

Than chaos and blank darkness, though once chiefs; She would weep that her wild bees

And as we show beyond that heaven and earth Sang not to her-strange! that honey

In form and shape compact and beautiful, Can't be got without hard money!

In will, in action free, companionship,

And thousand other signs of purer life; So it is: yet let us sing,

So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, Honour to the old bow-string!

A power more strong in beauty, born of us Honour to the bugle-horn!

And fated to excel us, as we pass Honour to the woods unsliorn!

In glory that old darkness: nor are we


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Thereby more conquer'd, than by us the rule I would not bode of evil, if I thought
Of shapeless chaos. Say, doth the dull soil

So weak a creature could turn off the help
Quarrel with the proud forest it hath fed,

Which by just right should come of mighty gods; And feedeth still, more comely than itself?

Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves?

Of what I heard, and how it made me weep, Or shall the tree be envious of the dove

And know that we had parted from all hope. Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings

I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, To wander wherewithal and find its joys?

Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers. Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves,

Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief; But eagles golden-feather’d, who do tower

Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ; Above us in their beauty, and must reign

So that I felt a movement in my heart In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law

To chide and to reproach that solitude That first in beauty should be first in might: With songs of misery, music of our woes; Yea, by that law, another race may drive

And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.

And murmur'd into it, and made melodyHave ye beheld the young God of the Seas,

O melody no more! for while I sang, My dispossessor ? have ye seen his face?

And with poor skill let pass into the breeze Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along

The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand By noble winged creatures he hath made?

Just opposite, an island of the sea, I saw him on the calmed waters scud,

There came enchantment with the shifting wind, With such a glow of beauty in his eyes,

That did both drown and keep alive my ears. That it enforc'd me to bid sad farewell

I threw my shell away upon the sand, To all my empire : farewell sad I took,

And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fillid
And hither came, to see how dolorous fate

With that new blissful golden melody.
Had wrought upon ye; and how I might best A living death was in each gush of sounds,
Give consolation in this woe extreme.

Each family of rapturous hurried notes,
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm.”

That fell, one after one, yet all at once, Whether through poz'd conviction, or disdain, Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string: They guarded silence, when Oceanus

And then another, then another strain, Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ? Each like a dore leaving its olive perch, But so it was, none answer'd for a space,

With music wing'd instead of silent plumes,
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene;

To hover round my head, and make me sick
And yet she answer'd not, only complain’d, Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame,
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild, And I was stopping up my frantic ears,
Thus wording timidly among the fierce:

When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands, “ O father, I am here the simplest voice,

A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune, And all my knowledge is that joy is gone,

And still it cried, • Apollo! young Apollo! And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, The morning-bright Apollo! young Apollo!' There to remain for ever, as I fear:

I Aed, it follow'd me, and cried • Apollo!'”

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Unmov'd, and stifed murmurs of applause,
Nor yet unconscious, slowly won her way
To where the King, amid the festal pomp,
Sate loftiest; as she rais’d a fair-chas'd cup,
Something of sweet confusion overspread
Her features; something tremulous broke in
On her half-failing accents, as she said,
· Health to the King!”-the sparkling wine laugh'd
As eager 'twere to touch so fair a lip. [up.

A moment, and the apparition bright
Had parted; as before, the sound of harps
Was wantoning about the festive hall.

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ROWENA INTRODUCED. Ceas'd the bold strain, then deep the Saxon drain’d The ruddy cup, and savage joy uncouth Lit his blue gleaming eyes: nor sate unmov'd The Briton Chiefs; fierce thoughts began to rise Of ancient wars, and high ancestral fame. Sudden came floating through the hall an air So strangely sweet, the o'erwrought sense scarce felt Its rich excess of pleasure; softer sounds Melt never on the enchanted midnight cool, By haunted spring, where elfin dancers trace Green circlets on the moonlight dews; nor lull Becalmed mariner from rocks, where basks At summer noon the sea-maid; he his oar Breathless suspends, and motionless his bark Sleeps on the sleeping waters. Now the notes So gently died away, the silence seem'd Melodious; merry now and light and blithe They danced on air: anon came tripping forth In frolic grace a maiden troop, their locks [zone Flower-wreathed, their snowy robes from clasped Fell careless drooping, quick their glittering feet Glanc'd o'er the pavement. Then the pomp of sound Swell'd up, and mounted; as the stately swan, Her milk-white neck embowered in arching spray, Queens it along the waters, entered in The lofty hall a shape so fair, it lullid The music into silence, yet itself Pour'd out, prolonging the soft extacy, The trembling and the touching of sweet sound. Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth And swimming majesty of step and tread, The symmetry of form and feature, set The soul afloat, even like delicious airs Of flute or harp: as though she trod from earth, And round her wore an emanating cloud Of harmony, the Lady mov’d. Too proud For less than absolute command, too soft For aught but gentle amorous thought: her hair Cluster’d, as from an orb of gold cast out A dazzling and o'erpowering radiance, save Here and there on her snowy neck repos'd In a sooth'd brilliance some thin wandering tress. The azure flashing of her eye was fring'd With virgin meekness, and her tread, that seem'd Earth to disdain, as softly fell on it As the light dew-shower on a tuft of flowers. The soul within seem'd feasting on high thoughts, That to the outward form and feature gave A loveliness of scorn, scoru that to feel Was bliss, was sweet indulgence. Fast sank back Those her fair harbingers, their modest eyes, Downcast, and drooping low their slender necks In graceful reverence; shie, by wond'ring gaze

And now have Hengist and Caswallon climbid
The chariot of the Oracle: no wheels
Bear that strange car; like wind along the sea,
It glides along the rapid rein-deer's track.
Beauteous those gentle rein deer arched their necks
And cast their palmy antlers back, and spread
Their broad red nostrils to the wind; they hear
Old Hengist's voice, like arrows down the wind,
Like shot-stars through the welkin start they forth.
The car slides light, the deer bound fleet: they pass
Dark leagues of pine and fir, the filmy liglit,
Shivering with every motion of the wind,
On their brown path lies tremulous; o'er them sails,
Heard through the dismal foliage hissing shrill,
And hoarser groanings of the swaying boughs,
The funeral descant of the ominous birds.
Around them the prophetic milk white steeds,
Their necks yet virgin of the taming curb,
With all their loose long glories, arch, and pass
In solemn silence, and regardless paw
The unechoing earth. But that old German, set
Inflexible with bolder hand to draw
The veil of dusk futurity, disdains
These tamer omens. Still the car slides light,
The deer bound fleet, they pause not, save to quaff
The narrow cruise, to share their scanty store.
Like swallows o'er the glassy rivers smooth,
O'er the pellucid lake, with glittering breast
Yet wrinkled with its rippling waves, they skim;
The dead unstirring ocean bears them on;
Amid the immortal ice-hills wind they now.

In restless change, God's softer summer works
Glitter and fade, are born and die, but these,
Endiadem'd by undissolving snows,
High Potentates of winter's drear domain,
Accumulate their everlasting bulk;
Eternal and imperishable, stand
Amid Creation's swift inconstant round,
In majesty of silence undisturbid,


Save when from their long-menacing brows they Down sink the summond mighty, and expand shake

Valhalla's cloudy portals; to their thrones, The ruining Avalanche; unvisited

They the triumphant strangers lead, and pour By motion, but of sailing clouds, when sleets Lavish the eternal beverage of the Gods. From their unwasting granary barb their darts, And the grim North wind loads his rimy wings. Nor trace of man, save many a fathom deep,

THE FOUNTAIN OF SILOE-NIGHT. Haply dark signs of some tall people strange, That walk'd the infant earth, may shroud profound

Sweet fountain, once again I visit thee! Their legends inaccessible. They soar

And thou art flowing on, and freshening still In headlong precipice, or pyramid

The green moss, and the flowers that bend to thee, Linking the earth and heaven, to which the piles

Modestly with a soft unboastful murmur Where those Egyptian despots rot sublime,

Rejoicing at the blessings that thou bearest. Or even that frantic Babylonian tower,

Pure, stainless, thou art flowing on; the stars Were frivolous domes for laughter and for scorn. Make thee their mirror, and the moonlight beams Nor wants soft interchange of vale, where smiles

Course one another o'er thy silver bosom: White mimicry of foliage and thin flower.

And yet thy flowing is through fields of blood, Feathery and fanlike spreads the leafy ice,

And armed men their hot and weary brows With dropping cup, and roving tendril loose,

Slake with thy limpid and perennial coolness. As though the glassy dews o'er flower and herb

Even with such rare and singular purity Their silken moisture had congeal'd, and yet Mov'st thou, oh Miriam! in yon cruel city. Within that slender veil their knots profuse

Men's eyes o'erwearied with the sights of war, Blossom'd and blush'd with tender life, the couch

With tumult and with grief, repose on thee
Less various where the fabled Zephyr fans

As on a refuge and a sweet refreshment.
With his mild wings his Flora's bloomy locks;
But colourless and cold, these flowering vales

Voice at a distance.
Seem meeter for decrepit Winter's head

Javan !

To lie in numb repose. The car slides light,
The deer bound fleet, the long gray wilderness

It is her voice! the air is fond of it,
Hath something of a roseate glimmering dim, And enviously delays its tender sounds
And widens still its pale expanse: when lo,

From the ear that thirsteth for them-Miriam! A light of azure, wavering to display No sights, no shapes of darkness and of fear.

JAVAN, MIRIAM. Tremblingly flash'd the inconstant meteor light,

Javan. Shewing thin forms, like virgins of this earth,

Nay, stand thus in thy timid breathlessness, Save that all signs of human joy or grief,

That I may gaze on thee, and thou not chide me The flush of passion, smile or tear had seem'd

Because I gaze too fondly.
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek,

Strange and unnatural: statues not unlike
By nature, in fantastic mood congeald

Hast thou brought me From purest snow, the fair of earth to shame,

Thy wonted offerings? Surpassing beauteous : breath of mortal life

Javan. Heaved not their bosoms, and no rosy blood

Dearest, they are here: Tinged their full veins, yet mov'd they, and their

The bursting fig, the cool and ripe pomegranate, steps

The skin all rosy with the imprison'd wine; Were harmony. But three of that bright troop, All I can bear thee, more than thou canst bear The loveliest and the wildest, stood aloof,

Home to the city. Enwrapt by what in human form were like

Impulse divine, of their fine nature seem'd

Bless thee! Oh my father!
The eternal instinct. Them no less survey'd
Caswalion with the knitted brow of scorn,

How will thy famish’d and thy toil-bow'd frame

Resume its native majesty! thy words, [lips Bitter he spake_“ No marvel Saxon souls

When this bright draught hath slak'd thy parched Revel in war's delights, so stern, so fierce

Flow with their wonted freedom and command! Their deities.” Severe with wrath supprest, As one ill brooking that irreverent mirth

Javan. Scoff’d the wild lore, himself ne'er dared to doubt, Thy father! still no thought but of thy father! Answer'd the son of Woden. “ These, proud Nay, Miriam! but thou must hear me now, Chief,

Now ere we part—if we must part again, So snowy, soft, and airy gentle, these

If my sad spirit must be rent from thine. Are ministers of destiny and death,

Even now our city trembles on the verge The viewless Riders of the battle-field:

Of utter ruin. Yet a night or two, When sounds the rushing of their sable steeds, And the fierce stranger in our burning streets

Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers, Of frantic men in battle rack the soul
Let Gischala, let fallen Jotapata

With their importunate and jarring din,
Tell, if one living man, one innocent child,

Javan, I think on thee, and am at peace.
Yet wander o'er their cold and scatter'd ashes. Our famish'd maidens gaze on me, and see
They slew them, Miriam, the old grey man, That I am famish'd like themselves, as pale,
Whose blood scarce tinged their sword-(nay, turn With lips as parch'd and eyes as wild, yet I
not from me,

Sit patient with an enviable smile
The tears thou sheddest feel as though I wrung them On my wan cheeks, for then my spirit feasts
From mine own heart, my life blood's dearest Contented on its pleasing thoughts of thee.

My very prayers are full of thee, I look
They slew them, Miriam, at the mother's breast, To heaven and bless thee ; for from thee I learnt
The smiling ivfants ;—and the tender maid, The way by which we reach the eternal mansions.
The soft, the loving, and the chaste like thee, But thou, injurious Javan! coldly doubtest.
They slew her not till

And-Oh! but I have said too much. Oh! scorn not

The immodest maid, whom thou hast vex'd to utter Miriam.

What yet she scarce dared whisper to herself.
Javan, 'tis unkind!
I have enough at home of thoughts like these,

Thoughts horrible, that freeze the blood, and make Will it then cease! will it not always sound
A heavier burthen of this weary life.

Sweet, musical as thus? and wilt thou leave me? I hop'd with thee t' have passed a tranquil hour,

Miriam. A brief, a hurried, yet still tranquil hour !

My father! - But thou art like them all! the miserable

Javan. Have only Heaven, where they can rest in peace,

Miriam! is not thy father Without being mock'd and taunted with their

(Oh, that such flowers should bloom on such a stock !) misery Javan.

The curse of Israel? even his common name

Simon the assassin! of the bloody men Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy

That hold their iron sway within yon city, To be reproach'd by her he loves, or thus

The bloodiest! Thou would'st not speak. But t'was not to provoke

Miriam. That sweet reproof, which sounds so like to tenderness :

Oh cease, I pray thee cease!

Javan! I know that all men hate my father; I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save.

Javan! I fear that all should hate my father; That old and secret stair, down which thou stealest

And therefore, Javan, must his daughter's love, At midnight through tall grass and olive trunks, Which cumber, yet conceal thy difficult path,

Her dutiful, her deep, her fervent love, It cannot long remain secure and open;

Make up to his forlorn and desolate heart

The forfeited affections of his kind.
Nearer and closer the stern Roman winds

Is it not written so in our Law ? and He
His trenches; and on every side but this
Soars his imprisoning wall. Yet, yet 'tis time,

We worship came not to destroy the Law.
And I must bear thee with me, where are met

Then let men rain their curses, let the storm

Of human hate beat on his rugged trunk, In Pella the neglected church of Christ.

I will cling to him, starve, die, bear the scoffs Miriam.

Of men upon my scatter'd bones with him. With thee! to fly with thee! thou mak'st me fear

Javan. Lest all the while I have deceived my soul,

Oh, Miriam! what a fatal art hast thou Excusing to myself our stolen meetings

Of winding thought, word, act, to thy sole purpose; By the fond thought, that for my father's life

The enamouring one even now too much enamour'd! I labour'd, bearing sustenance from thee,

I must admire thee more for so denying, Which he hath deem'd heaven-sent.

Than I had dared if thou hadst fondly granted.

Thou dost devote thyself to utterest peril,
Oh! farewell then

And me to deepest anguish; yet ev
The faithless dream, the sweet yet faithless dream,

Thou art lovelier to me in thy cold severity That Miriam loves me!

Flying me, leaving me without a joy,

Without a hope on earth, without thyself;

Thou art lovelier now than if thy yielding soul
Love thee! I am here, Had smiled on me a passionate consent.
Here at dead midnight by the fountain's side, Go; for I see thy parting homeward look,
Trusting thee, Javan, with a faith as fearless Go in thy beauty! like a setting star,
As that which the instinctive infant twines

The last in all the thick and moonless heavens, Toits mother's bosom-Love thee! when the sounds O'er the lone traveller in the trackless desert. Of massacre are round me, when the shouts

Go! if this dark and miserable earth

even now


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