Part 2 (1/2)

Above the ivies' branchlets gray In glistening cl.u.s.ters shone; While round the base the gra.s.s-blades bright And spiry foxglove sprung.

The brambles clung in graceful bands, Chequering the old gray stone With s.h.i.+ning leaflets, whose bright face In autumn's tinting shone.

Around the fountain's eastern base A babbling brooklet sped, With sleepy murmur purling soft Adown its gravelly bed.

Within the cell the filmy ferns To woo the clear wave bent; And cus.h.i.+oned mosses to the stone Their quaint embroidery lent.

The fountain's face lay still as gla.s.s-- Save where the streamlet free Across the basin's gnarled lip Flowed ever silently.

Above the well a little nook Once held, as rustics tell, All garland-decked, an image of The Lady of the Well.

They tell of tales of mystery, Of darkling deeds of woe; But no! such doings might not brook The holy streamlet's flow.

Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts, Of melancholy dreams, By that fair fount whose sunny wall Basks in the western beams.

When last I saw that little stream, A form of light there stood, That seemed like a precious gem, Beneath that archway rude:

And as I gazed with love and awe Upon that sylph-like thing, Methought that airy form must be The fairy of the spring.

Helston, 1835.

IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL {216}

I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven; I would be great: there is no pride in heaven; I would have sung, as doth the nightingale The summer's night beneath the moone pale, But Saintes hymnes alone in heaven prevail.

My love, my song, my skill, my high intent, Have I within this seely book y-pent: And all that beauty which from every part I treasured still alway within mine heart, Whether of form or face angelical, Or herb or flower, or lofty cathedral, Upon these sheets below doth lie y-spred, In quaint devices deftly blazoned.

Lord, in this tome to thee I sanctify The sinful fruits of worldly fantasy.

1839.

THE WEIRD LADY

The swevens came up round Harold the Earl, Like motes in the sunnes beam; And over him stood the Weird Lady, In her charmed castle over the sea, Sang 'Lie thou still and dream.'

'Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold, Since thou hast been with me; The rust has eaten thy harness bright, And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light, That was so fair and free.'

Mary Mother she stooped from heaven; She wakened Earl Harold out of his sweven, To don his harness on; And over the land and over the sea He wended abroad to his own countrie, A weary way to gon.

Oh but his beard was white with eld, Oh but his hair was gray; He stumbled on by stock and stone, And as he journeyed he made his moan Along that weary way.

Earl Harold came to his castle wall; The gate was burnt with fire; Roof and rafter were fallen down, The folk were strangers all in the town, And strangers all in the s.h.i.+re.

Earl Harold came to a house of nuns, And he heard the dead-bell toll; He saw the s.e.xton stand by a grave; 'Now Christ have mercy, who did us save, Upon yon fair nun's soul.'