IV. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I leap on board: no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: V. When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight VI. to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odors haunt my dreams; This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. VII. The clouds are broken in the sky, Swells up, and shakes and falls. So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. EDWARD GRAY. SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town "And have you lost your heart?" she said; Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: "Ellen Adair she loved me well, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. "Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Filled I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. Cruel, cruel were the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: 'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' "There I put my face in the grass · Whispered, 'Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' "Then I took a pencil, and wrote On a mossy stone, as I lay, 'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!' "Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 'Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turned away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Edward Gray!" WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. MADE AT THE COCK. O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, VOL. II. To which I most resort, How goes the time? "T is five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind. To make me write my random rhymes, Ere they be half-forgotten; Nor add and alter, many times, Till all be ripe and rotten. 8 |