Part 5
All around us, the brightness that fills the spirit, the deep shadows beneath scaur and tree, the sound of bleating upon the hills, and the melody of waters dashing past boulders or rolling with an onward, free, and joyous music over pebbled beds, lead us alike to reverence and gratitude. Nature is a gentle, sweet, and loving teacher. We shall never touch the hem of her garment in vain. She giveth us grace and sympathy and love.
But we must leave our bosky dell in the midst of this Highland glen. We can carry away, however, memories from it that shall be always our own. The indescribable yet fascinating music of the waters falling into the linn yonder is ours for ever now; so is the rock there, cushioned with the tender green moss, that moss that comes in silence, and lays its gentle covering mantle over the mounds of our beloved dead. There, too, a few yards from us, is a still pool which might remain for ever in one’s memory. How the shadows are reflected from the flowers! Here we have the fable of Narcissus told us again in this Highland dell. But that flower near us droops—it is almost touching its shadow: they have been wooing each other long. By-and-by they will clasp each other, and wooed and wooer will float away. But it is autumn, and flowers must wither and die. When our autumn departure cometh, may our passing away be as calm!
THE RIME OF SIR LIONNE.
‘Hush, a little, for harp and rhyme; This befell in the olden time.’
W. ALLINGHAM.
In days of old, as rimesters tell, (Culvert, and petrel, and mangonel), A maiden dwelt in a castle stout, Guarded and walled, within, without, And ever defeat and direful rout To all her castle’s besiegers fell.
No suitor the maid’s proud heart could win, (Pike, and halberd, and culverin); She recked not of love-kiss, ne vow, ne sigh, But her song had the ring of a battle-cry: ‘O strong is my fortress—a maid am I— And never a foeman shall enter in.’
But it fell in an evening windy-wet, (Hauberk, and helmet, and bascinet), A knight drew rein ’neath the castle wall; Proud was his port, his stature tall, His face held the gazer’s eye in thrall, And a lion of gold on his casque was set.
He winded a bugle silver-clear, (Mace, and arblast, and bandoleer), Singing: ‘Yield up thy castle, fair May, to me: Sir Lionne me hight, of a far countrie. Now boune thee, Lady, my love to be, Or I take thee by prowess of bow and spear!’
In the pale, pale light of a crescent moon, (Spear, and corselet, and musketoon), She saw him there by the castle wall, And shrilled to the warder a careless call: ‘Ho!—let portcullis and drawbridge fall; We would see this bold knight of a braggart tune.’
And oh! but the wind had changed, I trow, (Falchion, and gauntlet, and good crossbow), When, an eve from thence, in a fading light, On the bastion-keep stood a maid and knight, And, while to his heart he clasped her tight, ‘Thou hast conquered, Sir Lionne!’ she murmured low.
‘I had vowed that no knight beneath the sun, (Demi-pique, helm, and habergeon), Beneath the sunlight, or moonbeam shine, Should be lord of this castle and heart of mine: But take me, dear love, I am only thine; My fortress is taken—my heart is won.’
BRINHILD.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._