The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 12

COUNTY GUY.

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trilled all day, Sits hushed his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour-- But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings highborn Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know-- But where is County Guy?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

EVENING.

The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song; The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long.

Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side.

The n.o.ble dame on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armor bright.

The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart; And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart.

The wood lark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song-- All meet whom day and care divide,-- But Leonard tarries long!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE BEGGAR MAID.

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Barefooted came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua.

In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."

As s.h.i.+nes the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen:

One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien.

So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DIANA.]

HYMN TO DIANA.

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, G.o.ddess, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's s.h.i.+ning orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, G.o.ddess, excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal s.h.i.+ning quiver; Give unto the flying hart s.p.a.ce to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, G.o.ddess, excellently bright.

BEN JONSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

HELVELLYN.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide, All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?

And, O, was it meet, that,--no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-- Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is s.h.i.+elded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall; Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long isle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, 'wildered, he drops from some rock huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam; And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.