But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

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,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woes;
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

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;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed-
And now it courted Love-now raving, called on
Hate.

With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired,

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,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder slung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed

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.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

THE REASON WHY.

A CORNISH BALLAD.

A GOOD Sword and a trusty hand,
A merry heart and true;
King James's men shall understand
What Cornish men can do.

And have they fixed the Where and When?
And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why!

What, will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,
And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand underground
Will know the reason why!

Out spake the Captain brave and bold,-
A gallant wight was he,-
"Though London's Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawney free.

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
We'll shout with it in view,-
Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all,
We're better men than you;

Trelawney is in keep and hold,
Trelawney e'en may die ;

But twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!

What, will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,
And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand underground
Will know the reason why!"

FAST as shaft can fly,

Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by.

With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen, drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand,
His arms were smeared with blood and sand;
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone;
Can that be haughty Marmion?

When doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:

"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare !

Redeem my pennon,-charge again;
Cry, Marmion to the rescue!'-Vain!
Last of my race, on battle plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again !-
Yet my last thought is England's. Fly!
To Dacre bear my signet ring;
Tell him his squadrons up to bring.
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield;
Edmund is down, my life is reft,
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,—
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.

Must I bid twice ?-hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die."
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain rung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst!"

O, woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel thou !—

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran :

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,