Thus in the tissue of my tale, herein As heretofore, an interwoven thread -Rest thee a space or if thou lov'st to hear Turn thou the page, and let thy senses drink And find what life was hers before the date That with the Fleming's fortunes linked her fate. This sang she to herself one summer's eve, A recreant from festivities that grieve The heart not festive; stealing to her bower, With this she whiled away the lonely evening hour. THE LAY OF ELENA. He asked me had I yet forgot The words at my command. They would not come, and it was better so, But I can answer when there's none that hears; Yes, I remember well The land of many hues, Whose charms what praise can tell, Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare, Up to their summits clothed in green, And fruitful as the vales between, They lightly rise, And scale the skies, And groves and gardens still abound; For where no shoot Could else take root, The peaks are shelved and terraced round; Earthward appear, in mingled growth, The mulberry and maize,—above The trellised vine extends to both The leafy shade they love. Looks out the white-walled cottage here, The lowly chapel rises near; Far down the foot must roam to reach The lovely lake and bending beach; A little sail is loosed to take The night wind's breath, and waft The maiden and her bark away, Across the lake and up the bay. Before her shines the evening star, Behind her in the woods afar The castle lights are lost. What doth she there? The evening air And would she be allowed To brave the wind and sit in the dew Her mother sixteen years before The burthen of the baby bore ; And though brought forth in joy, the day So joyful, she was wont to say, In taking count of after years, Gave birth to fewer hopes than fears. For seldom smiled The serious child, And as she passed from childhood, grew And though she loved her father well, And though she loved her mother more, Upon her heart a sorrow fell, And sapped it to the core. And in her father's castle, nought She ever found of what she sought, And all her pleasure was to roam On the lonely lake in the little boat. It was not for the forms,-though fair, Though grand they were beyond compare,— |