POEMS.

SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER:

A LEGENDARY TALE.

IN TWO PARTS.

Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Shoud many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due

Langhorne.

PART I.

O nostra Vita, ch'e si bella in vista!

Com' perde agevolmente in un momento,

Quel, ch'en molt' anni a grand pena s'acquista!

THERE was a young and valiant knight,

Sir Eldred was his name,

And never did a worthier wight

The rank of knighthood claim.

Jetrarca

Where gliding Tay, her streams sends forth
To feed the neighbouring wood,

The ancient glory of the north,

Sir Eldred's castle stood.

The knight was rich as knight might be

In patrimonial wealth;

And rich in nature's gifts was he,

In youth, and strength, and health.

He did not think, as some have thought,
Whom honour never crown'd,

The fame a father dearly bought,
Could make the son renown'd.

He better thought, a noble sire,
Who gallant deeds had done,
To deeds of hardihood should fire
A brave and gallant son.

The fairest ancestry on earth
Without desert is poor;

And every deed of former worth
Is but a claim for more.

Sir Eldred's heart was ever kind,
Alive to pity's call;

A crowd of virtues graced his mind,
He loved, and felt for all.

When merit raised the sufferer's name,

He shower'd his bounty then;

And those who could not prove that claim He succour'd still as men.

But sacred truth the muse compels,

His errors to impart ;

And yet the muse reluctant tells

The fault of Eldred's heart.

Though mild and soft as infant love

His fond affections melt;

Though all that kindest spirits prove
Sir Eldred keenly felt:

Yet if the passions storm'd his soul,

By jealousy led on;

The fierce resentment scorn'd control,

And bore his virtues down.

Not Thule's waves so wildly break,
To drown the northern shore;
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake,
Or Scythia's tempests roar.

As when in summer's sweetest day,
To fan the fragrant morn,
The sighing breezes softly stray
O'er fields of ripen'd corn.

Sudden the lightning's blast descends,
Deforms the ravag'd fields;

At once the various ruin blends,
And all resistless yields.

But when, to clear his stormy breast,
The sun of reason shone,

And ebbing passions sunk to rest,
And show'd what rage had done;

O then what anguish he betrayed!
His shame how deep, how true!
He view'd the waste his rage had made,
And shudder'd at the view

The meek-eyed dawn, in saffron robe,
Proclaim'd the opening day,

Up rose the sun to gild the globe,
And hail the new-born May;

The birds their vernal notes repeat,
And glad the thick'ning grove,
And feather'd partners fondly greet
With many a song of love:

When pious Eldred early rose
The Lord of all to hail :
Who life with all its gifts bestows,
Whose mercies never fail!

That done-he left his woodland glade,
And journey'd far away;

He loved to court the distant shade,
And through the lone vale stray.

Within the bosom of a wood,
By circling hills embrac'd,
A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of taste:

While many a prouder castle fell,

This safely did endure;

The house where guardian virtues dwell Is sacred and secure.