Three times I thus have watch'd the snow

Grow crimson with the stain,

The setting sun threw o'er the rock,

And I have watch'd in vain.

I love to see the graceful bow Across his shoulder slung,I love to see the golden horn

Beside his baldric hung.

I love his dark hounds, and I love His falcon's sweeping flight;

I love to see his manly cheek With mountain colours bright.

I've waited patiently, but now Would that the chase were o'er: Well may he love the hunter's toil,

But he should love me more.

Why stays he thus ?-he would be here
If his love equall'd mine ;—
Methinks had I one fond caged dove,

I would not let it pine.

But, hark! what are those ringing steps
That up the valley come?

I see his hounds,-I see himself,-
My ULRIC, welcome home!

WHEN SHOULD LOVERS BREATHE THEIR VOWS?

When should lovers breathe their vows?

When should ladies hear them?

When the dew is on the boughs,

When none else are near them; When the moon shines cold and pale, When the birds are sleeping, When no voice is on the gale,

When the rose is weeping; When the stars are bright on high,

Like hopes in young Love's dreaming, And glancing round the light clouds fly,

Like soft fears to shade their beaming. The fairest smiles are those that live

On the brow by starlight wreathing; And the lips their richest incense give When the sigh is at midnight breathing. O, softest is the cheek's love-ray

When seen by moonlight hours, Other roses seek the day,

But blushes are night flowers.

O, when the moon and stars are bright,
When the dew-drops glisten,
Then their vows should lovers plight,
Then should ladies listen!

CANTO I.

CALL to mind your loveliest dream,

When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream,
When your pillow is made of the violet,
And over your head the branches are met
Of a lime tree cover'd with bloom and bees,
When the roses' breath is on the breeze,
When odours and light on your eyelids press
With summer's delicious idleness;

And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance
Of the faery banks of the bright Durance;

Just where at first its current flows
'Mid willows and its own white rose,-

Its clear and early tide, or ere

A shade, save trees, its waters bear.

The sun, like an Indian king, has left
To that fair river a royal gift

Of gold and purple; no longer shines
His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines
Sweeping beneath the burning sky
Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie
Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep
While the wings of the tempest shall over them

sweep.

-And with its towers cleaving the red

Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread
Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks
Of the light young trees on the river's banks,
And ending there, as the waters shone
Too bright for shadows to rest upon,
A castle stands; whose windows gleam
Like the golden flash of a noonlit stream
Seen through the lily and water-flags' screen:
Just so shine those panes through the ivy green,
A curtain to shut out sun and air,
Which the work of years has woven there.
-But not in the lighted pomp of the west
Looks the evening its loveliest;
Enter yon turret, and round you gaze
On what the twilight east displays:
One star, pure, clear, as if it shed
The dew on each young flower's head;
And, like a beauty of southern clime,
Her veil thrown back for the first time,
Pale, timid as she fear'd to own
Her claim upon the midnight throne,

Shows the fair moon her crescent sign.
-Beneath, in many a serpentine,
The river wanders; chestnut trees
Spread their old boughs o'er cottages
Where the low roofs and porticoes
Are cover'd with the Provence rose.
And there are vineyards: none might view
The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves;
And olive groves, pale as the dew

Crusted its silver o'er the leaves.
And there the castle garden lay
With tints in beautiful array:

Its dark green walks, its fountains falling,
Its tame birds to each other calling;
The peacock with its orient rings,
The silver pheasant's gleaming wings;
And on the breeze rich odours sent
Sweet messages, as if they meant
To rouse each sleeping sense to all
The loveliness of evening's fall.-
That lonely turret, is it not
A minstrel's own peculiar spot?
Thus with the light of shadowy gray
To dream the pleasant hours away.

Slight columns were around the hall With wreath'd and fluted pedestal Of green Italian marble made, In likeness of the palm trees' shade And o'er the ceiling starry showers Mingled with many-colour'd flowers, With crimson roses o'er her weeping, There lay that royal maiden sleepingDANAE, she whom gold could moveHow could it move her heart to love? Between the pillars the rich fold Of tapestry fell, inwrought with gold, And many-colour'd silks which gave, Strange legends of the fair and brave. And there the terrace cover'd o'er With summer's fair and scented store; As grateful for the gentle care That had such pride to keep it fair.

And, gazing, as if heart and eye Were mingled with that lovely sky, There stood a youth, slight as not yet With manhood's strength and firmness set;

But on his cold, pale check were caught
The traces of some deeper thought,
A something seen of pride and gloom,
Not like youth's hour of light and bloom:
A brow of pride, a lip of scorn,—

Yet beautiful in scorn and pride-
A conscious pride, as if he own'd

Gems hidden from the world beside; And scorn, as he cared not to learn Should others prize those gems or spurn. He was the last of a proud race

Who left him but his sword and name, And boyhood past in restless dreams Of future deeds and future fame. But there were other dearer dreams Than the lightning flash of these war gleams That fill'd the depths of RAYMOND's heart; For his was now the loveliest part Of the young poet's life, when first,

In solitude and silence nurst,

His genius rises like a spring
Unnoticed in its wandering;

Ere winter cloud or summer ray
Have chill'd, or wasted it away,
When thoughts with their own beauty fill'd

Shed their own richness over all,
As waters from sweet woods distill'd

Breathe perfume out where'er they fall.
I know not whether love can fling
A deeper witchery from his wing

Than falls sweet power of song from thine.
Yet, ah! the wreath that binds thy shrine,
Though seemingly all bloom and light,
Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight.
Planet of wayward destinies

Thy victims are thy votaries!

Alas! for him whose youthful fire
Is vow'd and wasted on the lyre,-
Alas! for him who shall essay,
The laurel's long and dreary way!
Mocking will greet, neglect will chill
His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill;
And, worst of all, that heartless praise
Echo'd from what another says.
He dreams a dream of life and light,
And grasps the rainbow that appears
Afar all beautiful and bright,

And finds it only form'd of tears.
Ay, let him reach the goal, let fame
Pour glory's sunlight on his name,
Let his songs be on every tongue,

And wealth and honours round him flung:
Then let him show his secret thought,
Will it not own them dearly bought?

See him in weariness fling down
The golden harp, the violet crown;
And sigh for all the toil, the care,
The wrong that he has had to bear;

Then wish the treasures of his lute
Had been, like his own feelings, mute,
And curse the hour when that he gave
To sight that wealth, his lord and slave.

But RAYMOND was in the first stage
Of life's enchanted pilgrimage:
"Tis not for spring to think on all
The sear and waste of autumn's fall:-
Enough for him to watch beside
The bursting of the mountain tide,
To wander through the twilight shade
By the dark, arching pine-boughs made,
And at the evening's starlit hour
To seek for some less shadowy bower,
Where dewy leaf, and flower pale
Made the home of the nightingale.
Or he would seek the turret hall,
And there, unheard, unseen of all,
When even the night winds were mute,
His rich tones answer'd to the lute;
And in his pleasant solitude

He would forget his wayward mood,
And pour his spirit forth when none
Broke on his solitude, save one.

There is a light step passing by Like the distant sound of music's sigh; It is that fair and gentle child, Whose sweetness has so oft beguiled, Like sunlight on a stormy day, His almost sullenness away.

They said she was not of mortal birth,
And her face was fairer than face of earth:
What is the thing to liken it to?

A lily just dipp'd in the summer dew-
Parian marble-snow's first fall?—
Her brow was fairer than each and all.
And so delicate was each vein's soft blue,
"Twas not like blood that wander'd through.
Rarely upon that cheek was shed,
By health or by youth, one tinge of red;
And never closest look could descry,
In shine, or in shade, the hue of her eye
But as it were made of light, it changed,
With every sunbeam that over it ranged;
And that eye could look through the long dark lash,
With the moon's dewy smile, or the lightning's
flash.

Her silken tresses, so bright and so fair,
Stream'd like a banner of light on the air,
And seldom its sunny wealth around
Was chaplet of flowers or riband bound;
But amid the gold of its thousand curls
Was twisted a braid of snow-white pearls,-
They said 'twas a charmed spell; that before,
This braid her nameless mother wore;