Thy boon is for thy husband-thou wouldst wish

That holy men should, every morn and eve,

Offer their orisons; yes, thou wouldst ask
For daily masses for thy lord's return.

Then let the holiest priests in England's realm
Breathe all their purchased prayers; tho' trust me, love,
One whisper'd wish, breathed from a heart like thine,
Would influence more the purity of Heaven

Than all the masses that the Church e'er sold.

Thou wouldst require some boon for holy church,
Speak I not truth, my Emma?

EM.

Oh, sweet Lord!

I would that sacred powers were all employed
To shed their influence on thine enterprise!

I would that holy men should weary heaven

For blessings on thy journey; this I ask,
But ask far more, a boon I scarce may name.
I would, upon thy weary pilgrimage,

Some dear and well-loved form should haunt thy way,

Should cheer thy health, and all thy sickness share, And be to thee a lover and a bride!

This is my boon. I ask to share thy vow,

And go a fellow pilgrim with my lord.

AL. Nay, my sweet love! Affection asks a prayer,

That honour's self denies. I am, thou know'st,

The soldier of the Cross, the sacred sign
Is my sole banner now, and e'en my love

Must yield to my devotion! Love's delights
Suit ill a soldier's duty. Would'st thou, then,
Behold thy love a truant from his vows,

And a base recreant from the Holy Cause?

EM. Nay, I'll resign each dear connubial claim, Nor breathe a thought of love, so thou but grant My one sole boon! Oh, my own love! I'll be Thy boy, thy page; in youthful garb arrayed, I'll serve a vassal to my honour'd lord! I'll wake at morn my warrior from his couch, And all day long I'll watch his slightest looks, And guess his very wishes; then at night I'll wake my lute to themes of joy and love, And thus I'll sooth my warrior to his rest. These are my cares in health, and if disease Should stretch my love upon his torturing couch, Oh, who like me shall soothe his weary bed, Or pour assuaging balsams? or what breast Like mine can pillow to repose benign? I'll be, sweet love to thee, as minstrels sing, The fairy of thy being, and will charm

All noxious things away, and strew all good
Along thy path of danger and of love!

AL. Hear me, my Emma, 'tis but for thyself
Thine Albert fears; ah! little knows my love
The dangers that await her. Can a form
Framed only for the arms of sheltering love,
E'er brave the dangers of a warrior's life.

EM. Believe me, Albert, Love itself can know

No evil such as absence; she who shares
Her lov'd one's trials lightens all her own.
While she, poor timid one, who rests at home,
Augments her certain griefs by fancied ills,
And like the timid child, in darkness left,
Finds in ideal fears her worst of woes!

AL. It scarce may be.

EM.

O do not idly strive

To thwart my purpose, 'tis the settled vow,
And fix'd resolve of love! Go as ye list,
I'll track o'er land and sea my warrior's course,
And on far Eastern shores my lord shall meet
His bride beside him, and shall find that love
Knows but one place to separate-the tomb.

AL. Nay, I must yield. Oh! man, how vain the pow'r Thy pride would arrogate, when woman arms

Her feeblest powers against thee. Yes, sweet life,
I grant with willing grace thy boon of love.
Thou shalt bear company with Richard's queen,
Who sails, e'en now, for Cyprus; thou shalt share
The splendour of her court, or stay-if more
Thou lov'st my poor companionship, then be
E'en what thou say'st,-in boyish garb array'd,
Be thou my page and vassal. Oh my love!
The bard, in after times shall sing thy tale,
The limner seek in thine for Cupid's face,
And picture Love, like thee, a blue-eyed boy!
Come, let's away together.

(Exeunt.)

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF A FRIEND.

YES! I obey thy summons with delight,

To write my name upon thy classic roll,
But on its page some counsels will indite,

Such as may best befit a minstrel's scroll.
For thou would'st live a poet-thy young soul
Hath caught the influence of those hallow'd fires,

That not, alone, mere mortal minds control,

But hold their empire o'er angelic choirs,

And wake the hymns of heaven, and tune the seraph lyres!

If thou would'st live on the bright wreath of fame,
That beams the rainbow of the moral sky;

If thou would'st leave, to after times, a name

Which like that bow of promise ne'er shall die: Then must thy youthful mind, and ear, and eye Be subject to high teachings, must obey

The call imperious of that influence high,

That bids thee spurn this dull material sway,

And soar to brighter worlds and realms of cloudless day.