And said I, that my limbs were old,
And that my head with age was cold;
That time had quench'd my wonted fire,
And stol'n the witchery of my lyre,
And curb'd my fancy's youthful pride?
If I said so, why then I lied!
I cannot view fair nature's face,
Nor catch her well-remember'd grace;
Nor taste the balm of beauty's smile,
That cheer'd my lonely heart erewhile;
Nor see the woodland warbler stray
In careless freedom on the spray;
Yet when I hear the summer breeze
Play o'er the bosoms of the trees,
Whose answering whispers seem to tell,
They love the gentle visit well;
Or the wild music of the grove,
Vocal with lengthen'd notes of love;
Or what is sweeter to my ear,
The voice of gentle damsel near;
Remembrance waken'd starts away
To blithsome scenes of distant day,
When these dead eyes could freely scan,
The face of nature and of man;
Catch, mantling in young beauty's cheeks,
The blush that untold secret speaks,
Translate the glances of her eye,
The only real witchery.

I.

The opening eye-lids of the dawn,
A smiling glance threw o'er the lawn,
Where dew-drops glitter'd in the ray,
And Gossamers all sparkling lay,
Like veil bespangled all with gold,
And thrown in many a careless fold
O'er the fair head of damsel gay,
To hide her beauties from the day.

II.

Sir Bolus and the doughty knights,
Who long ago had dous'd their lights,
In hopes to dream of some rare plan,
To break the head of stout foeman,
Awaken'd by the swift-wing'd ray,
Bright herald of the coming day,
That o'er the world of waters play'd,
And in the cabin window stray'd,
Start up, as did their great compeer,
When struck by bright Ithuriel's spear.
Sir Bolus then, prodigious man,
Unfolded thus his glorious plan.

III.

" Did not Josiah Quincy say,
" In Congress only t'other day,
" That Britain's power was unconfin'd,
" As raging flood, or freeborn wind?
" That in three months no Yankey sail
" Would spread its bosom to the gale?
" With such encouragement we came,
" In hope to share the glorious game,
" And line our coffers with that gold,
" The love of which makes bord'rers bold:
" And yet by our bright ruling star,
" The star of plunder and of war,
" Save neutral, or d — — d oyster boat,
" Not fit on ocean's wave to float,
" A skiff, a veritable log,
" As none but vent'rous Yankey dog
" Would trust his carcase in a mile,
" Though ocean wore her sweetest smile;
" Save such vile prey, our cruise has been
" The vilest cruise that e'er was seen.

IV.

He ceas'd, then cast his hopeless eye
On a huge map just lying by,
And strait that eye, with living fire,
Was lighted up in bitter ire:
In tones that quell'd the ocean wave,
Thus our good knight began to rave:
" The recreant wight who dares to say,
" In the bright face of this good day,
" That in this land French influence
" Exists not, sure has lost his sense:
" A living proof behold we here,
" In black and white distinct appear:
" Behold, sir knights, a vile French place,
" Call'd Havre — with a d — — d de Grace!
" Another too! yclept French town,
" Which we by Heav'n must tumble down,
" Ev'n though their walls were twelve feet thick
" Of good grey stone, or blood-red brick;
" Like those of far-fam'd Lewistown,
" We tried in vain to batter down;
" Which, like Amphion fam'd of old,
" Sir Beresford, in safety bold,
" Rais'd up by magic of his lyre,
" To keep the town from catching fire."

V.

Childe Cockburn to Sir Bolus goes,
With spectacles on Bardolph nose,
Which burnt the glass at such a rate,
It almost sing'd his whisker'd pate;
Pores o'er the map with curious eyes,
And soon the staring proof espies.
Sir Beresford, though half asleep
As usual, came and took a peep;
And all agreed, was nought so clear,
As that French influence triumph'd here.

VI.

Then thus Sir Bolus — " Who will dare
" The dangerous glory, and repair
" To these vile towns, and wrap in flame
" Their being, nay, their very name?
" Who dares, upon our knightly word,
" His majesty shall make a lord. "
Sir Beresford was capering round,
With lightsome step and airy bound,
Whistling an Irish jig the while,
With many a self-approving smile,
His much admired leg to greet,
In silken hose, " neat and complete,"
He heard not, or seemed not to hear,
But whistled still, " Brave Brian's Bier."

VII.

But keen Childe Cockbnrn, good at need,
A stouter never stole a steed,
Or bullock with a single blow
Sent bellowing to the shades below;
With noble spirit, valour stirr'd,
Started up, and took the word:

" O merrily I to the battle will hie,
" And merrily, merrily burn;
" And many a day, shall not pass away,
" Till Sir Cockburn in triumph return.

" Ere long will I gaze on the bright burning blaze
" Of this rascally town of the French;
" And feast on the fright, of the scampering wight,
" And the terror of half-naked wench.

" O swiftly can speed, my vessel at need,
" And sweet blows the south wind so mild —
" Gramercy! Sir Knight, I ne'er felt such delight,
" Since I robb'd a hen-roost when a child.

" And safer by none, can thy errand be done,
" Than Noble Knight by me;
I love to hear the shrill cry of fear,
" And the bright burning cottage to see."

VIII.

Childe Cockburn's hand Sir Bolus took,
And like a knight of mettle shook;
Well pleas'd to think what vast renown
Would spring from burning this French town,
And that his glory soon unfurl'd,
Should light the shores of this New World;
And blaze like bale-fire, near and far,
The Phaenix of the Border war.
O then he call'd for generous wine,
To treat the gallant Knight,
For well Sir Bolus did opine,
He'd drink as well as fight.
The music too in merry peal
Struck up at his command:
The Irish jig, the Scottish reel,
Was danc'd on light fantastic heel,
By the three knights hand in hand.
At last Sir Bolus gave the order,
To play " Blue Jackets o'er the Border;"
A merry lilt, which at the time
When chivalry was in its prime
Stern Border chiefs would oft inspire,
To dance round cottage wrapt in fire,
With howlings, as when Indian yell
Is heard at midnight hour to swell,
Sad herald of those damned rites,
Which Indian chiefs and modern knights
Pay to the god of their desire,
The god of plunder, rape, and fire.

IX.

And now around the ample board,
With Yankey plunder often stor'd,
In silence for their dinner wait
The stalwart knights in sober state;
And soon the tarry scullions came,
With many a dish well known to fame,
Roast beef, though not of merry England,
At top of table took its stand;
Beef, which Sir Beresford had won,
In battle brave at Lewistown;
Potatoes next were seen to smoke,
Which Irish appetites provoke;
To please Childe Cockburn's Scottish faste,
The board with oaten cakes was grac'd;
Haggis, salt herring, and whate'er
Scotch palate tickles, too was there.

X.

But when their stomachs ran aground,
The sparkling goblet pass'd around;
For stout Sir Bolus, good at need,
Was fam'd for making bottles bleed:
He, like Sir Quixote, oft mistook,
And pipes of wine for wind-pipes took;
The which, with keen pot-valour true,
At backstroke he would slice in two;
And while the blood-red liquor ran,
Would swear 'twas blood of stout foeman.

XI.

Me lists not at this tide declare
What drinking feats these knights did dare,
And how, in fight of mantling bowl,
They sent full many a Yankey soul
To wander in the shades of death,
And scare their ghostships out of breath,
With tales of mighty Border feats,
Perform'd by gallant British fleets.
Suffice that evening clos'd around,
And our wet knights still quaffing found;
Nor till night's dim and shadowy hand
The veil had drawn o'er sea and land,
And shut the windows of the skies,
Did this our great triumvirate rise,
And when they rose, in sooth be't said,
They rose to reel to birth or bed.

Ceas'd the high strain. — The lady smil'd
Her grateful thanks, for time beguil'd;
In sooth, by such a witching strain,
She well might list it o'er again:
Yet much she ponder'd in her mind,
How one so weak, so old, and blind,
Could touch the strings with such true art,
As won the listening hearer's heart.
She wot not of the sacred spark
That cheer'd him on his way so dark;
That in his aged bosom burn'd,
And all his hours to sunshine turn'd.
Much too she marvell'd he should roam
In the wide world without a home,
Whose art could minister so sweet,
And mem'ry of her poisons cheat,
And win the heart to peace and rest
When hope expires on sorrow's breast.
" Was none to cheer his sightless hours,
" To foster his sweet minstrel powers?
" No son, no daughter, no dear friend,
" To sooth, to succour, to defend;
" To bury him when he should die,
" And o'er his green grave sadly sigh?
" Was none to guide his lonely way,
" Through endless night, but little Tray?"
The old man's spirit seem'd to roam
A moment to some long-lost home,
And on his dark cheek once it seem'd
A tear of glistening sorrow gleam'd:
Sadly he hung his snowy head,
And sadly sigh'd, yet nothing said.
Then, as to cheat the hour of grief,
Thus the sad minstrel sought relief,
And tried, by magic of his art,
To sooth the aching of his heart.