Among my holiest thoughts shall still be shrined, Yea, near Ione in my inmost mind.

LVIII.

But to my task. This happy creature's song Each morning, in his dreams, Sir Launfal heard, Beneath his lattice as she tripp'd along,—

Sweet as the hymn of morn's full-hearted bird, And no less joyous;-for she thought no wrong, Nor ever had the breeze of passion stirr'd Her heart's clear waters-so her voice was free In its full gush of natural melody.

LIX.

And through her garden, with the morn's first light,
With fawn-like footsteps would the maiden roam,
To pluck fresh garlands for the stranger knight,
Which in her lap she laughingly brought home,
And flung them o'er him with a girl's delight,
If by such playful wiles she might o'ercome
His melancholy mood;-the good knight smiled-
And gladden'd with kind looks that loveliest child.

LX.

Even as a father or some tender friend,

To her at times full gently would he speak, Smooth her fair clustering locks, and mildly bend To kiss her ivory forehead or soft cheek, For greeting or good night.-I don't pretend To know how he contrived, for many a week, To keep his heart untouch'd—Alas! poor Blanch, Thy gentle bosom was not half so stanch.

LXI.

Poor bird! thou art infected-'tis too late

To fly; Love's net has tangled thy sweet wings. Alas! 'tis vain to struggle with thy fate;

Thou hast beheld thy last of happy springs. Sweet Blanch, too surely art thou desolate

Oh! for some finer hand to touch my strings! Oh! for the strains of him who sung so well Of slain Lorenzo and his Isabel !*

LXII.

But for sweet Blanch-Sir Launfal's tone and looks
Unwittingly had pierced her artless breast;
And soon their wonted bloom her cheeks forsook,
And her pale eye-lids were deprived of rest;
Beneath his glance her gentle spirit shook

With love, though scarcely to herself confest;
And still his absent voice was in her ears,
And her lone pillow still was bathed in tears.

LXIII.

Poor little girl! alas, she had no sister

To whom her secret grief she might reveal; No mother, whose mild counsel might assist her— Her pangs in secret was she doom'd to feel; And now Sir Launfal's looks, whene'er he kiss'd her, (Which was but seldom) pierced her heart like

steel,

They were so cold-for he was not so stupid
As to o'erlook this handy-work of Cupid.

* Keats.

LXIV.

Therefore from dangerous talk did he refrain,
And hid the tears which to his eyes would start
For pity of the love-sick maiden's pain;
For good Sir Launfal had a tender heart;
Though, as I said before, and say again,
I can't imagine where he found the art
To keep it as he did-unless some spell
Lay on his nature-which seems probable.

LXV.

O Reader! was it e'er thy sad mischance

To be beloved, when thou no more wast freeTo shrink and quail at Beauty's brightest glance, Because 'twas brightest when it beam'd on theeTo check each kinder look, each meek advance Of timorous love, with coldest courtesyYet feel how deep that barbed coldness went? And she so youthful and so innocent!

LXVI.

If such should ever be thy hapless lot,

I charge thee from her presence quickly fly; Begone, while yet there's time, and linger not

To feed the passion of her ear and eyeHaply, when absent, thou shalt be forgot; But if to glut thy heartless vanity, Thou triflest with her happiness- I vow, There's not on earth a wretch more curs'd than thou

LXVII.

'Tis hard, no doubt, to say farewell for ever,

To one who loves you, though you love not her,—

'Tis hard your wandering eyes from her's to sever; But curb your inclinations, or you'll err. The following couplet is profound and clever, (Your Poet's still the best Philosopher) Καὶ μὴ δοκῶμεν, ὁρῶντες ἂν ἡδώμεθα, Οὐκ αντιτίσειν αὖθις ἃ ν λυπώμεθα.

LXVIII.

These lines are taken out of Sophocles,*

Be not alarm'd, fair ladies; all that's meant Is, that if once you do whate'er you please,

You're sure to have good reason to repent. I think it right to state such facts as these,

For fear some honest Grecian should invent A meaning for the lines that's false or strain'd, When ladies come to have the Greek explain'd.

LXIX.

But to proceed. When Blanch's father knew
The love his daughter to Sir Launfal bore,
(Though sore her strife to hide from outward view
The wound that rankled at her young heart's core)
Pale, on a sudden, and enraged he grew,

And angrily he bade her seek no more
The orchard cottage, and in secret curst
Sir Launfal and the hour he came there first.

LXX.

So, the poor maiden, to her thoughts confined,
And to the grief that on her heart did press,
In a perpetual sadness droop'd and pined,

* Ajax, 1085-6.

Wasting in tears her youthful loveliness; Stricken she seem'd in body and in mind,

And those who look'd into her eyes might guess Her days on earth were number'd ;-thus she waned To death, yet never, save with tears, complain'd.

LXXI.

And every day her wasted cheek grew paler,

And dimmer, every day, her eye became ; And the sweet music of her voice did fail her,

And her light footstep was no more the same. The neighbours deem'd no natural grief could ail her,

And swore Sir Launfal had bewitch'd her frame ; 'Twas true Sir Launfal had bewitch'd her,-not Her body, but her soul,-which they forgot.

LXXII.

As for Sir Launfal he was glad to see

That she return'd no more, he felt 'twas wise: Though he oft miss'd her gentle company,

And now would sometimes think of her with sighs, Recalling to his wakeful memory

Her voice so touching, and her love-sick eyes; And yet Sir Launfal still was fancy-free, Which really is most wonderful to me !

LXXIII.

Meanwhile, Sir Launfal's purse began to dwindle,
To very small dimensions; yet, the more
It shrank, the more his heart appear'd to kindle
With pity for each beggar at his door;

The Fates for him had turn'd their darkest spindle;
He gave, and gave, until his scanty store