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By shoal and rock hath steerd my venturous bark,
And landward now I drive before the gale. And now the blue and distant shore I hail,
And nearer now I see the port expand,
And, as the prow light touches on the strand,
Where we must land some of our passengers,
And light this weary vessell of her lode.
Till she repaired have her tackles spent
On the long voiage whereto she is bent:
Faërie Queene, Book i. Canto 12]
[“ Upon another occasion,” says Sir Walter, “I sent up another of these trifles, which, like schoolboys' kites, served to show how the wind of popular taste was setting. The manner was supposed to be that of a rude minstrel, or Scald, in opposition to the Bridal of Triermain,' which was designed to belong rather to the Italian school. This new fugitive piece was called • Harold the Dauntless ;' and I am still astonished at my having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. My ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had published, about the same time, a work called the · Poetic Mirror,' containing imitations of the principal living poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own style, which bore such a resemblance to • Harold the Dauntless,' that there was no discovering the original from the imitation ; and I believe that many who took the trouble of thinking upon the subject, were rather of opinion that my ingenious friend was the true, and not the fictitious Simon Pure.”—INTRODUCTION TO THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 1830.]
HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.
THERE is a mood of mind we all have known,
Nor dare we of our listless load complain,
pain ? The jolly sportsman knows such drearihood, When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain, Clouding that morn which threats the heath-cock's
brood; of such, in summer's drought, the anglers plain, Who hope the soft mild southern shower in vain; But, more than all, the discontented fair, Whom father stern, and sterner aunt, restrain
From county ball or race occurring rare While all her friends around their vestments gay pre
pare. Ennui!- or, as our mothers called thee, Spleen, To thee we owe full many a rare device;
Thine is the sheaf of painted cards I ween,
(Murders disguised by philosophic name,) And much of trifling grave, and much of buxom game
Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy glance
sung, Delicious dreams inspiring by his note,
What time to Indolence bis harp he strung; Oh! might my lay be rank’d that happier list among !
Each hath his refuge whom thy cares assail.
Damsel and dwarf, in long procession gleam,
'Tis thus' my malady I well may bear,