Classic Poem

I

My Lucy, when the maid is won
The minstrel's task, thou know'st, is done;
And to require of bard
That to his dregs the tale should run
Were ordinance too hard.
Our lovers, briefly be it said,
Wedded as lovers wont to wed,
When tale or play is o'er;
Lived long and blest, loved fond and true,
And saw a numerous race renew
The honors that they bore.
Know too that when a pilgrim strays
In morning mist or evening maze
Along the mountain lone,
That fairy fortress often mocks
His gaze upon the castled rocks
Of the Valley of Saint John;
But never man since brave De Vaux
The charmed portal won.
'T is now a vain illusive show
That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow,
Or the fresh breeze hath blown.

II

But see, my love, where far below
Our lingering wheels are moving slow,
The whiles, up-gazing still,
Our menials eye our steepy way,
Marvelling perchance what whim can stay
Our steps when eve is sinking gray
On this gigantic hill.
So think the vulgar — Life and time
Ring all their joys in one dull chime
Of luxury and ease;
And O, beside these simple knaves,
How many better born are slaves
To such coarse joys as these,
Dead to the nobler sense that glows
When nature's grander scenes unclose!
But, Lucy, we will love them yet,
The mountain's misty coronet,
The greenwood and the wold;
And love the more that of their maze
Adventure high of other days
By ancient bards is told,
Bringing perchance, like my poor tale,
Some moral truth in fiction's veil:
Nor love them less that o'er the hill
The evening breeze as now comes chill; —
My love shall wrap her warm,
And, fearless of the slippery way
While safe she trips the heathy brae,
Shall hang on Arthur's arm.