The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 33

XCIX

_THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE_

1

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other.

A garland, of seven lilies wrought!

Seven sisters that together dwell; But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

2

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the sh.o.r.es of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant s.h.i.+p is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

3

Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing.

But now upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly, to left, to right-- Of your fair household, father-knight, Methinks you take small heed!

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

4

Away the seven fair Campbells fly; And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, 'Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!'

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

5

Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run and cry, 'Nay let us die, And let us die together.'

A lake was near; the sh.o.r.e was steep; There foot had never been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

6

The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone For those seven lovely Campbells.

Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

_W. Wordsworth_

C

_THE BEGGAR MAID_

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say; Barefooted came the beggar maid Before the King Cophetua.

In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; 'It is no wonder,' said the lords, 'She is more beautiful than day.'

As s.h.i.+nes the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien.

So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua swore a royal oath: 'This beggar maid shall be my queen.'

_A. Tennyson_

CI

_THE WILD HUNTSMAN_

The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo!

His fiery courser snuffs the morn, And thronging serfs their lords pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of G.o.d's own hallow'd day Had painted yonder spire with gold, And calling sinful man to pray, Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled.

But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Halloo, halloo! and, hark again!

When spurring from opposing sides, Two stranger hors.e.m.e.n join the train.

Who was each stranger, left and right, Well may I guess but dare not tell; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of h.e.l.l.

The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.

He waved his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, 'Welcome, welcome, n.o.ble lord!

What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase afford?'

'Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,'

Cried the fair youth with silver voice; 'And for devotion's choral swell, Exchange this rude unhallow'd noise;

'To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane; To-day the warning Spirit hear, To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.'

'Away, and sweep the glades along!'

The sable hunter hoa.r.s.e replies; 'To muttering monks leave matin song, And bells, and books, and mysteries.'

The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, And, launching forward with a bound, 'Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, Would leave the jovial horn and hound?

'Hence, if our manly sport offend!

With pious fools go chant and pray; Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!'

The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light, O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill; And on the left and on the right, Each stranger horseman follow'd still.