II.

'Twas eve; Calantha had resumed again The wonted life, recaptured to its chain; In the calm chamber, Morvale sat, and eyed Lucy's lithe shape, that seem'd on air to glide; Eyed with complacent, not impassion'd, gaze; So Age looks on, where some fair Childhood plays: Far as soars Childhood from dim Age's scope, Beauty to him who links it not with hope!

"Sing me, sweet Lucy," said Calantha, "sing Our favourite song--'_The Maiden and the King_.' Brother, thou lov'st not music, or, at least, But some wild war-song that recalls the East. Who loves not music, still may pause to hark Nature's free gladness hymning in the lark: As sings the bird sings Lucy! all her art A voice in which you listen to a heart."

A blush of fear, a coy reluctant "nay" Avail her not--thus ran the simple lay:--

THE MAIDEN AND THE KING.