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Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;
I float till all is dark.
Three angels bear the holy Grail :
On sleeping wings they sail.
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
And star-light mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borne
Through dreaming towns I go,
The streets are dumb with snow.
And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight - to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
That often meet me here.
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touched, are turned to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky,
And through the mountain-walls
and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
Ride on the prize is near.”
By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-armed I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.
SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town
Met me walking on yonder way, “ And have
heart ?" she said;
Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me:
Bitterly weeping I turned away: “Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.
« Ellen Adair she loved me well,
Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept,
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,
To which I most resort,
the time? 'Tis five o'clock.
You set before chance-comers,
On Lusitanian summers.
No vain libation to the Muse,
But may she still be kind,
Her influence on the mind.
Ere they be half-forgotten;