But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung,-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder, down; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, The doubling drum with furious heat: Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed- With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay; Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung queen; Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from fortn their alleys green. Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. To some unwearied minstrel dancing, As if he would the charming air repay, THE REASON WHY. A CORNISH BALLAD. A GOOD Sword and a trusty hand, And have they fixed the Where and When? Then twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why! What, will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen, Then twenty thousand underground Out spake the Captain brave and bold,- We'll cross the Tamar hand to hand, The Exe shall be no stay Go, side by side, from strand to strand, And who shall bid us nay? What, will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen, And shall Trelawney die? Then twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why! And when we come to London wall Trelawney is in keep and hold, But twenty thousand Cornish men What, will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen, Then twenty thousand underground FAST as shaft can fly, Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, Lord Marmion's steed rushed by. With that, straight up the hill there rode A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand, When doffed his casque, he felt free air, "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! Redeem my pennon,-charge again; Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,— Must I bid twice ?-hence, varlets! fly! Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring O, woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; |