THE SERENADE.

WAKE, lady, wake!

Dear heart, awake

From slumbers light;

For 'neath thy bower, at this still hour, In harness bright,

Lingers thine own true paramour,

And chosen knight!

Wake, lady, wake!

Wake, lady, wake!

For thy loved sake,

Each trembling star

Smiles from on high with its clear eye, While nobler far

Yon silvery shield lights earth and sky; How good they are!

Wake, lady, wake!

Rise, lady, rise!

Not star-filled skies

I worship now,

A fairer shrine I trust is mine

For loyal vow:

O that the living stars would shine.

That light thy brow!

Rise, lady, rise!

Rise, lady, rise

Ere war's rude cries

Fright land and sea!

To-morrow's light sees mail-sheathed knight, Even hapless me,

Careering through the bloody fight

Afar from thee!

Rise, lady, rise!

Mute, lady, mute?

I have no lute,

Nor rebeck small

To soothe thine ear with lay sincere,

Or madrigal;

With helm on head and hand on spear,
On thee I call!

Mute, lady, mute!

Mute, lady, mute

To love's fond suit?

I'll not complain,

Since underneath thy balmy breath

I may remain

One brief hour more ere I seek death
On battle plain!

Mute, lady, mute!

Sleep, lady, sleep!
While watch I keep

Till dawn of day:

But o'er the wold now morning cold

Shines icy gray;

While the plain gleams with steel and gold, And chargers neigh!

Sleep, lady, sleep!

Sleep, lady, sleep!

Nor wake to weep

For heart-struck me:

These trumpets knell my last farewell

To love and thee!

When next they sound, 't will be to tell
I died for thee!

Sleep, lady, sleep!

COULD love impart,

By nicest art,

To speechless rocks a tongue,

Their theme would be,

Beloved, of thee,—

Thy beauty, all their song.

And, clerklike, then,

With sweet amen,

Would echo from each hollow

Reply all day;

While gentle fay,

With merry whoop, would follow.

Had roses sense

On no pretence

Would they their buds unroll;

For, could they speak,

'T was from thy cheek

Their daintiest blush they stole.

Had lilies eyes,

With glad surprise,

They'd own themselves outdone, When thy pure brow

And neck of snow,

Gleamed in the morning sun.

Could shining brooks,

By amorous looks

Be taught a voice so rare,
Then, every sound

That murmured round,

6

Would whisper, Thou art fair!'

Could winds be fraught
With pensive thought

At midnight's solemn hour,

Then every wood,

In gleeful mood,

Would own thy beauty's power!

And could the sky

Behold thine eye,

So filled with love and light,

In jealous haste,

Thou soon wert placed

To star the cope of Night!