The book of British ballads . e lute Beguile the weary moments now ; And little seems the lay to suitHer wistful eye and anxious brow. For, as the chord her finger sweeps,Oft-times she checks her simple song, To chide the forward chance that keepsLord Musgrave from her arms so long. And listens, as the wind sweeps by,His steeds familiar step to hear— Peace, beating heart! twas but the cryAnd foot-fall of the distant deer. In, lady, to thy bower ; fast weep The chill dews on thy cheek so pale ; Thy cherished hero lies asleep —Asleep in distant Russendale ! The noon was sultry, long the chase—An
The book of British ballads . e lute Beguile the weary moments now ; And little seems the lay to suitHer wistful eye and anxious brow. For, as the chord her finger sweeps,Oft-times she checks her simple song, To chide the forward chance that keepsLord Musgrave from her arms so long. And listens, as the wind sweeps by,His steeds familiar step to hear— Peace, beating heart! twas but the cryAnd foot-fall of the distant deer. In, lady, to thy bower ; fast weep The chill dews on thy cheek so pale ; Thy cherished hero lies asleep —Asleep in distant Russendale ! The noon was sultry, long the chase—And when the wild stag stood at bay, Burbek reflected from its faceThe purple lights of dying day. Through many a dale must Musgrave hieUp many a hill his courser strain, Ere he behold, with gladsome eye,His verdant bowers and halls again. But twilight deepens—oer the woldsThe yellow moonbeam rising plays, And now the haunted forest holdsThe wanderer in its bosky maze. A. Crowquil del. T. .Armstrong i 402 Uucfc of mm^aM. No ready vassal rides in sight; He blows his bugle, but the callRoused Echo mocks : farewell, to-night, The homefelt joys of Eden-Hall! His steed he to an alder ties, His limbs he on the greensward flings ;And, tired and languid, to his eyes Woos sorceress slumbers balmy wings. A prayer—a sigh, in murmurs faint, He whispers to the passing air;The Ave to his patron saint — The sigh was to his lady fair. Twas well that in that Elfin woodHe breathed the supplicating charm, Which binds the Guardians of the goodTo shield from all unearthly harm. Scarce had the nights pale Lady staidHer chariot oer th accustomed oak, Than murmurs in the mystic shadeThe slumberer from his trance awoke. Stiff stood his coursers mane with dread —His crouching greyhound whined with fear ; And quaked the wild-fern round his head,As though some passing ghost were near. Yet calmly shone the moonshine paleOn glade and hillock, flower and tree ; And sweet the gurgling nightingaleP
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