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THE LUCK OF EDEN-HALL.

BY J. H. WIFFEN.

It is currently believed in Scotland, and on the borders, that he who has courage to rush upon a fairy festival, and snatch away the drinking-cup, shall find it prove to him a cornucopia of good fortune, if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. A goblet is still carefully preserved in Eden-hall, Cumberland, which is supposed to have been seized, at such a banquet, by one of the ancient family of Musgrave. The fairy train vanished, crying aloud,

"If that glass either break or fall,
Farewell the luck of Eden-hall!”

From this prophecy the goblet took the name it bears-the Luck of
Eden-hall.
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.

ON Eden's wild romantic bowers

The summer moonbeams sweetly fall,
And tint with yellow light the towers,
The stately towers of Eden-hall.

There, lonely in the deepening night,
A lady at her lattice sits,

And trims her taper's wavering light,
And tunes her idle lute by fits.

But little can her idle lute

Beguile the weary moments now;

And little seems the lay to suit

Her wistful eye, and anxious brow:

For, as the chord her finger sweeps,
Oft-times she checks her simple song,
To chide the froward chance that keeps
Lord Musgrave from her arms so long:

And listens, as the wind sweeps by,

His steed's familiar step to hear : Peace, beating heart! 't was but a cry And foot-fall of the distant deer.

In, lady, to thy bower! fast weep
The chill dews on thy cheek so pale;
Thy cherished hero lies asleep,
Asleep in distant Russendale!

The noon was sultry, long the chase,
And when the wild stag stood at bay,
BURBEK reflected from its face

The purple lights of dying day.

Through many a dale must Musgrave hie,
Up. many a hill his courser strain,

Ere he behold, with gladsome eye,
His verdant bowers, and halls again:

But twilight deepens o'er the wolds

The yellow moonbeam rising plays, And now the haunted forest holds

The wanderer in its bosky maze,

No ready vassal rides in sight;

He blows his bugle, but the call Roused echo mocks: farewell, to-night, The homefelt joys of Eden-hall !

His steed he to an alder ties,

His limbs he on the green-sward flings,
And tired and languid, to his eyes
Woos sorceress Slumber's balmy wings.

A prayer, a sigh, in murmurs faint,
He whispers to the passing air ;-

The Ave to his patron saint,

The sigh was to his lady fair.

'T was well that in that Elfin wood

He breathed the supplicating charm, Which binds the Guardians of the good To shield from all unearthly harm:

Scarce had the night's pale lady stayed
Her chariot o'er the accustomed oak,
Than murmurs in the mystic shade

The slumberer from his trance awoke.

Stiff stood his courser's mane with dread,
His crouching greyhound whined with fear;
And quaked the wild fern round his head,
As though some passing ghost were near.

Yet calmly shone the moonshine pale
On glade and hillock, flower and tree,
And sweet the gurgling nightingale

Poured forth her music wild and free.

Sudden her notes fall hushed; and near
Flutes breathe, horns warble, bridles ring,
And, in gay cavalcade, appear

The Fairies round their Fairy king.

Twelve hundred Elfin knights and more
Were there, in silk and steel arrayed ;
And each a ruby helmet wore,

And each a diamond lance displayed.

And pursuivants with wands of gold,
And minstrels scarfed and laurelled fair,
Heralds with blazoned flags unrolled,
And trumpet-tuning dwarfs were there.

Behind, twelve hundred ladies coy,

On milk-white steeds brought up their Their kerchiefs of the crimson 'soy, Their kirtles all of Lincoln green.

Some wore, in fanciful costume,

A sapphire or a topaz crown;

queen,

And some a hern's or peacock's plume, Which their own tercel-gents struck down.

And some wore masks, and some wore hoods, Some turbans rich, some ouches rare; And some sweet woodbine from the woods, To bind their undulating hair.

With all gay tints the darksome shade
Grew florid as they pass'd along,
And not a sound their bridles made
But tuned itself to Elfin song.

Their steeds they quit · the knights advance, And in quaint order, one by one,

Each leads his lady forth to dance

The timbrels sound - the charm's begun.

Where'er they trip, where'er they tread,
A daisy or a bluebell springs,
And not a dew-drop shines o'erhead,
But falls within their charmed rings.

"The dance lead up, the dance lead down, The dance lead round our favourite tree;

If now one lady wears a frown,

A false and froward shrew is she!

"There's not a smile we Fays let fall

But swells the tide of human bliss ;

And if good luck attends our call,

'Tis due on such sweet night as this:

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