I found her where a flowering tree Gave odors and cool shade. Her cheek A little rested on her hand; Her rustic skill had made a band Of rare device which garlanded The beauty of her bending head; Some maiden thoughts most kind and wise Were dimly burning in her eyes. When I beheld her--form and face So lithe, so fair--the spirit race, Of whom the better poets dream'd, Came to my thought, and I half deem'd My earth-born mistress, pure and good, Was some such lady of the wood, As she who work'd at spell, and snare, With Huon of the dusky hair, And fled, in likeness of a doe, Before the fleet youth Angelo. But these infirm imaginings Flew quite away on instant wings. I call'd her name. A swift surprise Came whitely to her face, but soon It fled before some daintier dyes, And, laughing like a brook in June, With sweet accost she welcomed me. It was a golden day to me, And its great bliss is with me yet, Warming like wine my inmost heart---- For memories of happy hours Are like the cordials press'd from flowers, And madden sweetly.
Then the poet recited ancient lays which tell some natural tales; and then:
Pity look'd lovely in the maiden; Her eyes were softer, when so laden With the bright dew of tears unshed. But I was somewhat envious That other bards should move her thus, And oft within myself had said, "Yea--I will strive to touch her heart With some fair songs of mine own art"---- And many days before the day Whereof I speak, I made essay At this bold labor. In the wells Of Froissart's life-like chronicles I dipp'd for moving truths of old. A thousand stories, soft and bold, Of stately dames, and gentlemen, Which good Lord Berners, with a pen Pompous in its simplicity, Yet tipt with charming courtesy, Had put in English words, I learn'd; And some of these I deftly turn'd Into the forms of minstrel verse. I know the good tales are the worse-- But, sooth to say, it seems to me My verse has sense and melody---- Even that its measure sometimes flows With the brave pomp of that old prose.
It was a good while before the promised contents of the book were sent to us, and Cooke wrote of the delay to a friend:
"Procrastination is a poison of my very marrow. Moreover, since 'the first wisping of the leaf,' my whole heart has been in the woods and the waters--every rising sun that could be seen, _I have seen_, and I never came in from my sport until too much used up to do more than adopt this epitaph of Sardanapalus: 'Eat, drink,' &c. Moreover (2d), Mr. Kennedy and others were poking me in the ribs eternally about my poems; and I was driven to the labor of finishing them. I groaned and did it, and sent them to Griswold, and have left the task of carrying them through the press to him; and only lie passive, saying with Don Juan (in the slave-market of Adrianople, or some other place), 'would to God somebody would buy me.'"