[N] The Champac, a flower of a bright gold-colour, with which the Indian women are fond of adorning their hair. Moore alludes to the custom in the "Veiled Prophet." "The maid of India blest again to hold In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold," &c. PART THE THIRD. I. Lord Arden's tale robb'd Morvale's couch of sleep, The star still trembled on the troubled deep, O'er the waste ocean gleam'd its chilling glance, To make more dark the desolate expanse. This contrast of a fate, but vex'd by gales Faint with too full a balm from Rhodian Vales;[O] This light of life all squander'd upon one Round whom hearts moved, as planets round a sun, Mocks the lone doom _his_ barren years endure, As wasted treasure but insults the poor. Back on his soul no faithful echoes cast Those tones which make the music of the past. No memories hallow, and no dreams restore Love's lute, far heard from Youth's Hesperian shore;-- The flowers that Arden trampled on the sod, Still left the odour where the step had trod; Those flowers, so wasted!--had for _him_ but smiled One bud,--its breath had perfumed all the wild! He own'd the moral of the reveller's life, So Christian warriors own the sin of strife,-- But, oh! how few can lift the soul above Earth's twin-born rulers,--Fame and Woman's Love! Just in that time, of all most drear, upon Fate's barren hill-tops, gleam'd the coming sun; From nature's face the veil of night withdrawn, Earth smiled, and Heaven was open'd in the dawn! How chanced this change?--how chances all below? What sways the life the moment doth bestow: An impulse, instinct, look, touch, word, or sigh-- Unlocks the Hades, or reveals the sky. 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. I. "And far as sweep the seas below, My sails are on the deep; And far as yonder eagles go, My flag on every keep. "Why o'er the rebel world within Extendeth not the chart? No sail can reach--no arms can win The kingdom of a heart!"