CXII.

But on one luckless morn, as it befell,

She went to see a tournament, wherein The brave Sir Lanval bore himself so well,

And look'd so handsome when he chanced to win, That, over head and ears, in love she fell,

And vow'd 'twould be a burning shame and sin, If such a noble Knight should waste his worth On any daughter of the sons of Earth.

CXIII.

And from that day Sir Lanval's wealth declined,
And ladies look'd upon him with cold eyes;
It seem'd as if some spell had struck them blind,
Though you may guess the reason, if you're wise.
These two misfortunes mostly are combined—

As soon as wealth deserts you, girls despise :
And when you've ceased to be a "speculation,"
You lose, at once, all claim to toleration.

CXIV.

So by these means the Fairy strove to stem
Sir Lanval's tide of favour, and to wean

The ladies' hearts from him, and his from them,
And make him weary of the court's gay scene.
It was a method which I don't condemn,

At least it fully answer'd with the Queen; But with poor Blanch it had a bad effect,She loved him better for the world's neglect.

CXV.

And so she broke her heart, for which I'm sorry,
And would undo the mischief, if I could;
But mustn't alter this authentic story-

Perhaps it pleased the Fairy's wayward mood
To hurl Sir Lanval from his height of glory,
And prove him, in misfortune, wise and good:
But that Sir Lanval with poor Blanch should fall
In love, she could'nt tolerate at all.

CXVI.

Therefore she hung a spell around his heart,
And lull'd his earthly sympathies to sleep,
With the strong magic of her wondrous art;
And underneath his eyelids would she creep
(Of course I mean her spiritual part)

At night, and in her charms his senses steep;
Till he awoke, with thoughts perplex'd and dim
Of the strange beauty which so haunted him.

CXVII.

And thus she train'd him for her paramour-
Wiling his fancy from the world away;
A scheme which prosper'd better, to be sure,

In her hands than in those of Mr. Day *;
Whose pair of breaking tits would not endure
The strictness of his pre-connubial sway;

But married persons of inferior fortunes,

Because they liked long sleeves instead of short ones.
CXVIII.

'Twas summer-the enchanted forest lay,
Rich with the teeming leafiness of June,

In the still silence of meridian day,

Save when, at times, a low and fitful tune
Some wandering Zephyr on the leaves did play,
Or the unseen cicada hail'd the noon

With his shrill chirp, or, with a deep-fetched note,
Some meditative blackbird clear'd his throat.

CXIX.

There were some children, playing in the shade,
In one place, on their earnest sports intent;
When a new sound did suddenly invade
Their gambols, and anon their eyes were bent
On an unusual object-through the glade

A handsome Knight, upon a steed sore-spent
With travel and starvation, took his way-

The Knight was young, but pale—the steed a bay.

Author of Sandford and Merton.-See an edifying account of his method of breaking a brace of wives, in Mr. Edgeworth's autobiography.

CXX.

His eyes were sunk and dim-his head was bare;

His arms hung idly at his saddle-bow;

There was a pensive sadness in his air,

Which told that he had made fast friends with woe:

And yet a gentle patience linger'd there,

Softening his haggard eyes-his pace was slow ; Listlessly on his way he seem'd to wend,

He knew not whither-without aim or end.

CXXI.

The little children look'd upon his face

With awe, and turn'd not to their sports again

When he had past; his melancholy grace.

Sunk on their spirits with such tender pain :

The Knight soon reach'd the forest's loneliest place,

Dismounted, and took off his charger's rein;

Then, throwing his worn frame beneath a tree,
Began to gather daisies tristfully.

CXXII.

'Twas poor Sir Lanval, who had lately bidden
Farewell to Blanch, and all the world beside;
And thus far, on his lonely journey, ridden,
Seeking some savage place, wherein to hide-
What every body wishes to have hidden-

His poverty-and so to spare his pride,
Not dreaming (lucky dog) of what was brewing
To raise him to the height of bliss from ruin.

CXXIII.

While thus he lay, dejected and forlorn,
Under the shadow of the old oak tree,
Lamenting that he ever had been born

To such a doom of abject penury,

Behold two damsels, brighter than the morn,

Came tow'rd him through the green-wood suddenly,

Array'd in garments of transparent splendour,

Which dimm'd their beauties to a gleam more tender.

VOL. II. PART I.

L

CXXIV.

Of an immortal loveliness were they,

And yet seem'd mortal women-I've not time To speak minutely of their dress to-day,

But you may find it in the ancient rhyme ;
Which names each article of their array

In terms no less exact than they're sublime.
-My Muse, you know, has got into distresses
Ere now, for meddling with young ladies' dresses.
CXXV.

Dear Mrs. L., don't dub my rhymes "immoral"
Again, before you've read them, I request;
You know you did so, when you chose to quarrel
With my first canto, and, I hear, express'd
A firm determination to abhor all

Mention of ladies not completely dress'd
In chintz and cambric to the very chin-
Alleging that bare necks were baits of sin.

CXXVI.

Pray have you ever seen the Medicean

Venus ?-or, when you meet the Italian's tray,
Is it your custom, that you may not see an
Object so foul, to turn your eyes away?
Would you trick out, in modish European

Costume, the airy forms of Sylph and Fay?
And cramp the ancient heathen Gods and Goddesses
In pucker'd pantaloons and whale-bone boddices?

CXXVII.

There lives a lady, I've been told, at Florence,
Who has a charming Venus-an antique ;
Which tasty English travellers go in torrents
To look at, every year, and month, and week:
I don't suppose that e'en Sir Thomas Lawrence
(Though on this point I can't presume to speak
Decisively) on canvass could express
A quarter of its sculptured loveliness.

CXXVIII.

This statue, upon holidays and high days,
And common week-days also, you may see
In all its beauty, but on Fasts and Fridays
It wears a gown and apron bashfully.
Now Mrs. L., this sort of taste at thy days

May be correct, but seems absurd to me;
Who am resolved to laugh at all such nonsense,
And bow before no censor but my conscience.
CXXIX.

If e'er to painting Vice, in hues less hideous,
I dedicate my Muse's poor ability;

If e'er I pamper lust with strains insidious,
Or sneer, like Byron, at a wife's fidelity;
Or trick out shameless sense in phrase perfidious,
Or treat the Cockney doctrines with civility;
Brand me, as I deserve, for immorality,—
But don't call taste for beauty sensuality.

CXXX.

I wish the moral world (which I respect)

Would learn to know its real friends and foes;

And not, from sheer stupidity, reject

Virtue's true champions, to pay court to those Prim doctors of the Pharisaic sect,

*

Whose favour does more mischief than their blows;

Who make poor Truth an object of such terror,
That folks are fairly frighten'd into error.

CXXXI.

Caricaturing Sin is not the way

To make her less seductive:-paint her fairly; And as for Virtue-let her mien be

gay

In general-grave sometimes austere but rarely; Be not too harsh, and I'll be bound to say

That virtuous minds will not be found more sparely About you-where none's meant, don't seek offence, Knowing that freedom still is innocence.

* See and hear the Melodies of Tom the Little.