II.

'Twas eve; Calantha had resumed again The wonted life, recaptured to its chain; In the calm chamber, Morvale sat, and eyed Lucy's lithe shape, that seem'd on air to glide; Eyed with complacent, not impassion'd, gaze; So Age looks on, where some fair Childhood plays: Far as soars Childhood from dim Age's scope, Beauty to him who links it not with hope!

"Sing me, sweet Lucy," said Calantha, "sing Our favourite song—'The Maiden and the King.' Brother, thou lov'st not music, or, at least, But some wild war-song that recalls the East. Who loves not music, still may pause to hark Nature's free gladness hymning in the lark: As sings the bird sings Lucy! all her art A voice in which you listen to a heart."

A blush of fear, a coy reluctant "nay" Avail her not—thus ran the simple lay:—