Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1835.pdf/90

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And a youthful warrior stands Gazing not upon those bands, Not upon the lovely scene, But upon its lovelier queen, Who with gentle word and smile Courteous prays his stay awhile. The fairy of the fountains, she A strange and lovely mystery, She of whom wild tales have birth, When beside a winter hearth, By some aged crone is told, Marvel new or legend old. But the ladye fronts him there, He but sees she is so fair, He but hears that in her tone Dwells a music yet unknown; He but feels that he could die For the sweetness of her sigh. But how many dreams take flight With the dim enamoured night; Cold the morning light has shone, And the fairy train are gone, Melted in the dewy air, Lonely stands young Raymond there. Yet not all alone, his heart Hath a dream that will not part From that beating heart's recess; What that dream that lovers guess.

Yet another year hath flown In a stately hall alone, Like an idol in a shrine, Sits the radiant Melusine. It is night, yet o'er the walls, Light, but light unearthly, falls. Not from lamp nor taper thrown, But from many a precious stone, With whose variegated shade Is the azure roof inlaid, And whose coloured radiance throws Hues of violet, and rose. Sixty pillars, each one shining With a wreath of rubies twining,

Bear the roof—the snow-white floor Is with small stars studded o'er. Sixty vases stand between, Filled with perfumes for a queen; And a silvery cloud exhales Odours like those fragrant gales, Which at eve float o'er the sea From the purple Araby. Nothing stirs the golden gloom Of that dim enchanted room. Not a step is flitting round, Not a noise, except the sound Of the distant fountains falling, With a soft perpetual calling, To the echoes which reply Musical and mournfully.

Sits the fairy ladye there, Like a statue, pale and fair; From her cheek the rose has fled, Leaving deeper charms instead. On that marble brow are wrought Traces of impassioned thought; Such as without shade or line, Leave their own mysterious sign. While her eyes, they are so bright, Dazzle with imperious light. Wherefore doth the maiden bend? Wherefore doth the blush ascend, Crimson even to her brow, Sight nor step are near her now. Hidden by her sweeping robe, Near her stands a crystal globe, Gifted with strange power to show All that she desires to know. First she sees her palace gate, With its steps of marble state; Where two kneeling forms seem weeping O'er the watch which they are keeping. While around the dusky boughs Of a gloomy forest close, Not for those that blush arose.