High on a rock, whose rugged brow
Frown’d sternly o’er the vales below,10
And seem’d upon their charms to low’r,
Arose young Osmond’s stately tow’r.
Now up the craggy steep ascends
A train of vassals, and of friends;
Here serf in festive garb array’d,
Here hoary sire, here matron staid,
Here plumed lord, and blushing maid,
Sweep on in long, long cavalcade.
See, where his foaming courser’s speed
High Osmond reins by Emma’s steed;20
See, how his melting eyes impart
The love-sick tale that warms his heart;
The while her blushing looks reveal
The joy her eyes would fain conceal.
Each winning charm, each female grace,
Deck’d that soft virgin’s angel face;
While Cupid, thron’d in beauty warm,
Shone on her lover’s manly form:
Yet there, although he striv’d to hide,
You trac’d a wayward, haughty pride,30
And a fierce something went and came,
In his dark eye-ball’s rapid flame.
Lo! as they wind along the green,
Sudden a female form is seen,
A veil, with thickest sable dy’d,
Around her face was closely tied;
At Emma’s feet her form she flung,
And thus her hollow accents rung:—
“O lady fair, a boon I ask,
“Trust me, ’tis an easy task;40
“No costly robe, no blazing ore,
“No gem from India’s pamper’d shore,
“I wish to have!—O lady fair,
“Give me one lock of thy bright hair!”
‘A golden ringlet from my bride,’
In accents gay, young Osmond cried;
‘In truth, it is a strange request,
‘Yet, as she has so warmly prest,
‘Mine Emma, grant the rich bequest.’
Upon the stranger, Emma’s eyes50
Gaz’d for awhile in soft surprise,
While o’er her damask cheek arose
The brightness of the morning rose.
One golden lock, that from the braid
That bound her graceful curls had stray’d,
And had luxuriously fell
Adown her bosom’s rising swell,
Was from its snowy mansion riv’n,
And to the suppliant stranger giv’n.
Oh! then lord Osmond, could’st thou view60
The features ’neath that sable hue;
Could’st thou the withering sternness trace,
That darken’d o’er that once-lov’d face;
Sooner would’st thou, with rapture part,
From vital stream that warms thy heart,
Than to that shrouded female’s hold
Consign the curl of wavy gold.
Soon as the stranger seiz’d the prize,
Swift as the hunted roebuck flies,
Away, away, across the mead,70
Scour her feet with fairy speed.
Leave we awhile the blithsome throng,
That thickly, gaily sweep along,
And to that stranger turn our song.