Sir ELDRED of the BOWER: A LEGENDARY TALE, Part I

There was a young, and valiant Knight, SIR ELDRED was his name, And never did a worthier wight The rank of knighthood claim.

Where gliding Tay her stream sends forth, To crown the neighbouring wood, The antient glory of the North, SIR ELDRED's castle stood.

The youth was rich as youth might be In patrimonial dower; And many a noble feat had he Atchiev'd, in hall, and bower.

He did not think, as some have thought, Whom honour never crown'd, The fame a father dearly bought, Cou'd make the son renown'd.

He better thought, a noble sire, Who gallant deeds had done, To deeds of hardihood shou'd fire A brave and gallant son.

The fairest ancestry on earth Without desert is poor; And every deed of lofty worth Is but a tax for more.

SIR ELDRED's heart was good and kind, Alive to Pity's call; A croud of virtues grac'd his mind, He lov'd, and felt for all.

When merit rais'd the sufrerer's name, He doubly serv'd him then; And those who cou'd not prove that claim, He thought they still were men.

But sacred truth the Muse compels His errors to impart; And yet the Muse, reluctant, tells The fault of ELDRED's heart.

Tho' kind and gentle as the dove, As free from guile and art, And mild, and soft as infant love The feelings of his heart;

Yet if distrust his thoughts engage, Or jealousy inspires, His bosom wild and boundless rage Inflames with all its fires:

Not Thule's waves so wildly break To drown the northern shore; Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake, Or Scythia's tempests roar.

As when in summer's sweetest day, To fan the fragrant morn, The sighing breezes softly stray O'er fields of ripen'd corn;

Sudden the lightning's blast descends, Deforms the ravag'd fields; At once the various ruin blends, And all resistless yields.

But when, to clear his stormy breast, The sun of reason shone, And ebbing passions sunk to rest, And shew'd what rage had done:

O then what anguish he betray'd! His shame how deep, how true! He view'd the waste his rage had made, And shudder'd at the view.

The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe, Proclaimed the opening day; Up rose the sun to gild the globe, And hail the new-born May;

The birds their amorous notes repeat, And glad the vernal grove, Their feather'd partners fondly greet With many a song of love;

When pious ELDRED walk'd abroad His morning vows to pay, And hail the universal Lord Who gave the goodly day.

That done—he left his woodland glade, And journey'd far away; He lov'd to court the stranger shade, And thro' the lone vale stray.

Within the bosom of a wood, By circling hills embrac'd, A little, modest mansion stood, Built by the hand of Taste.

While many a prouder castle fell, This safely did endure; The house where guardian virtues dwell Is sacred, and secure.

Of Eglantine an humble fence Around the mansion stood, Which charm'd at once the ravish'd sense, And screen'd an infant wood.

The wood receiv'd an added grace, As pleas'd it bent to look, And view'd its ever verdant face Reflected in a brook.

The smallness of the stream did well The master's fortunes shew; But little streams may serve to tell From what a source they flow.

This mansion own'd an aged Knight, And such a man was he, As Heaven just shews to human sight, To tell what man shou'd be.

His youth in many a well-fought field Was train'd betimes to war; His bosom, like a well-worn shield, Was grac'd with many a scar.

The vigour of a green old age His reverend form did bear; And yet, alas! the warrior-sage Had drain'd the dregs of care.

And sorrow more than age can break, And wound its hapless prey; 'Twas sorrow surrow'd his firm cheek, And turn'd his bright locks grey.

One darling daughter sooth'd his cares, A young and beauteous dame; Sole comfort of his failing years, And BIRTHA was her name.

Her heart a little sacred shrine, Where all the Virtues meet; And holy Hope, and Faith divine, Had claim'd it for their seat.

She rear'd a fair and fragrant bower Of wild and rustic taste, And there she screen'd each fav'rite flower From every ruder blast.

And not a shrub or plant was there But did some moral yield; For wisdom, with a father's care, Was found in every field.

The trees, whose foliage fell away, And with the summer died, He thought an image of decay Might lecture human pride.

While fair, perennial greens that stood, And brav'd the wintry blast, As types of the fair mind he view'd Which shall for ever last.

He taught her that the gaudiest: flowers Were seldom fragrant found, But wasted soon their little powers, Lay useless on the ground.

While the sweet pink, and scented rose, In precious odours last; And when no more the colour glows, The sweetness is not past.

And here the Virgin lov'd to lead Her inoffensive day, And here she oft retir'd to read, And oft retir'd to pray.

Embower'd she grac'd the woodland shades, From courts and cities far, The pride of Caledonian maids, The peerless northern star.

As shines that bright and blazing star, The glory of the night, When sailing thro' the liquid air, It pours its lambent light:

Such BIRTHA shone!—But when she spoke The Muse herself was heard, As on the ravish'd air she broke, And thus her prayer preferr'd:

"O bless thy BIRTHA, Power Supreme, "In whom I live and move, "And bless me most by blessing him "Whom more than life I love."—

She starts to hear a stranger voice, And with a modest grace She lifts her meek eye in surprize, And sees a stranger face.

The stranger lost in transport stood, Bereft of voice and power, While she with equal wonder view'd SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER.

The mountain breeze which paints her cheek With Nature's purest dye, And all the dazzling fires which break Illustrious from her eye:—

He view'd them all, and as he view'd Drank deeply of delight; And still his ravish'd eye pursued, And feasted on the sight.

With silent wonder long they gaz'd, And neither silence broke; At length the smother'd passion blaz'd, Enamour'd ELDRED spoke:

"O sacred Virtue, heav'nly power! Thy wondrous force I feel; "I gaze, I tremble, I adore, Yet die my love to tell.

Beauty with coldness I've beheld, "And 'scap'd the shaft divine; But what my guardless heart can shield From piety like thine?"

She cast her mild eyes on the ground, And rais'd their beams as fast; And close her Father dear she found, Who haply that way past.

Good ARDOLPH's eye his BIRTHA meets With glances of delight; And thus with courteous speech he greets The young and graceful Knight:

O gallant Youth, whoe'er thou art, Thou art welcome to this place; "There's something rises at my heart Which says I've seen that face.

"Thou generous Knight!" the Youth rejoin'd, Tho' little known to same, "I trust I bear a grateful mind— SIR ELDRED is my name.

SIR ELDRED?"—ARDOLPH loud exclaim'd, "Renown'd for worth and power? For valour and for virtue fam'd, "SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER?

"Now make me grateful, righteous Heaven, As thou art good to me, Since to my aged eyes 'tis given SIR ELDRED's son to see!"

Then ARDOLPH caught him by the hand, And gaz'd upon his face, And to his aged bosom strain'd, With many a kind embrace.

Again he view'd him o'er and o'er, And doubted still the truth, And ask'd what he had ask'd before, Then thus addrest the Youth:

"Come now beneath my roof, I pray, Some needful rest to take, "And with us many a cheerful day Thy friendly sojourn make."

He enter'd at the gate straightway Some needful rest to take; And with them many a cheerful day Did friendly sojourn make.