"Not so the usage I received

When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

"I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the livelong day.

"If that my beauty is but small,

Amongst court-ladies all despised

Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful earl, it well was prized?

"And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was, you oft would say;
And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit-
Then left the blossom to decay.

"Yes, now neglected and despised,

The rose is pale, the lily's dead;

But he that once their charms so prized
Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled.

"For, know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn,

The sweetest beauty will decay

What floweret can endure the storm?

"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare;
That eastern flowers that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair:

“Then, earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie,

To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gaudes are by?

"Mong rural beauties I was one;

Among the fields wild-flowers are fair: Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare.

66

But, Leicester-or I much am wrong, Or, 'tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead (The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country-maid, When some fair princess might be thine?

"Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh then leave them to decay?

Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave me mourn the livelong day?

"The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as I go;

Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a countess can have woe.

"The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate;
To smile for joy, than sigh for woe;
To be content than to be great.

"How far less blest am I than them,
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant, that from its stem
Divided feels the chilling air.

"Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or prating rude.

"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,

The village death-bell smote my ear: They winked aside, and seemed to say,

Countess, prepare; thy end is near!'

"And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn ;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

"My spirits flag, my hopes decay-
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear;
And many a boding seems to say,

Countess, prepare; thy end is near!'"

Thus, sore and sad, that lady grieved
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
And many a heart-felt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring;
An aerial voice was heard to call:
And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall :

The mastiff howl'd at village door;
The oaks were shattered on the green:

Woe was the hour,-for nevermore
That hapless countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor now no more

Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall!

LL

257

The village maids with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,
Nor ever lead the merry dance

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the countess' fall,
As, wand'ring onwards, he has spied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

ALCANZOR AND ZAYDA.

A Moorish Tale. Imitated from the Spanish.

OFTLY blow the evening breezes,
Softly fall the dews of night;
Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,

Shunning every glare of light.

In yon palace lives fair Zayda,

Whom he loves with flame so pure; Loveliest she of Moorish ladies;

He a young and noble Moor.

Waiting for the appointed minute,
Oft he paces to and fro;

Stopping now, now moving forwards,

Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.

Hope and fear alternate teaze him,

Oft he sighs with heart-felt care:See, fond youth, to yonder window Softly steps the timorous fair.

Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre
To the lost benighted swain,
When all silvery bright she rises,

Gilding mountain, grove, and plain.

Lovely seems the sun's full glory
To the fainting seaman's eyes,
When, some horrid storm dispersing,
O'er the wave his radiance flies.

But a thousand times more lovely
To her longing lover's sight

Steals half seen the beauteous maiden
Thro' the glimmerings of the night.

Tip-toe stands the anxious lover,

"Is it true the dreadful story,

Which thy damsel tells my page,

That seduc'd by sordid riches
Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age?

"An old lord from Antiquera

Thy stern father brings along ; But canst thou, inconstant Zayda, Thus consent my love to wrong?

"If 'tis true now plainly tell me,
Nor thus trifle with my woes;
Hide not then from me the secret,
Which the world so clearly knows."

1 The Mahometan name of God.