And Eivir-life is on her cheek,

And yet she will not move or speak,
Nor will her eyelid fully ope;
Perchance it loves that half-shut eye,
Through its long fringe, reserved and shy
Affection's opening dawn to spy;

And the deep blush, which bids its dye
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly,
Speaks shame-facedness and hope.

XIX.

But vainly seems the Dane to seek
For terms his new-born love to speak,-
For words, save those of wrath and wrong
Till now were strangers to his tongue;
So, when he raised the blushing maid,
In blunt and honest terms he said,

('T were well that maids, when lovers woo,
Heard none more soft, were all as true,)
"Eivir! since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line
Of after-life I follow thine.

To morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side,

A Christian knight and Christian bride;

And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be said, That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed."

CONCLUSION.

AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid? And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow? No need to turn the page, as if 't were lead, Or fling aside the volume till to-morrow.— Be cneer'd 't is ended-and I will not borrow, To try thy patience more, one anecdote From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath wrote A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add a note.

THE

FIELD OF WATERLOO.

A POEM.

"Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand,
And Albert rush'd on Henry's way-worn band,
With Europe's chosen sons, in arms renown'd,
Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd,

Nor Audley's squires nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd,-

They saw their standard fall and left their monarch bound."

AKENSIDE

TO

HER GRACE

THE

DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON

PRINCESS OF WATERLOO,

&c. &c. &c.

THE FOLLOWING VERSES

ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED

BY

THE AUTHOR.

THE

FIELD OF WATERLOO.

I.

FAIR Brussels, thou art far behind,
Though, lingering on the morning wind,
We yet may hear the hour

Peal'd over orchard and canal,

With voice prolong'd and measured fall
From proud St. Michael's tower;

Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,'
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough
For many a league around,

With birch and darksome oak between,
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,
Of tangled forest ground.
Stems planted close by stems defy
The adventurous foot-the curious eye
For access seeks in vain:

And the brown tapestry of leaves,
Strew'd on the blighted ground, receives
Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.

["The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare's 'As you Like it.' It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful defence by the Germans against the Roman encroachments."- BYRON.]

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