foamy crest
O'er furrowed brow and blackened cheek,
And bade his surge in thunder speak.
In wild and broken eddies whirled,
Flitted that fond ideal world,
And, to the shore in tumult tost,
The realms of fairy bliss were lost.

Yet, with a stern delight and strange,
I saw the spirit-stirring change,
As warred the wind with wave and wood.
Upon the ruined tower I stood,
And felt my heart more strongly bound,
Responsive to the lofty sound,
While, joying in the mighty roar,
I mourned that tranquil scene no more.

So, on the idle dreams of youth,
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth,
Bids each fair vision pass away,
Like landscape on the lake that lay,
As fair, as flitting, and as frail,
As that which fled the Autumn gale.--
For ever dead to fancy's eye
Be each gay form that glided by,
While dreams of love and lady's charms
Give place to honour and to arms!

In sober prose, as perhaps these verses intimate less decidedly, the
transient idea of Miss Cecilia Stubbs passed from Captain Waverley's
heart amid the turmoil which his new destinies excited. She appeared,
indeed, in full splendour in her father's pew upon the Sunday when he
attended service for the last time at the old parish church, upon which
occasion, at the request of his uncle and Aunt Rachel, he was induced
(nothing loth, if the truth must be told) to present himself in full
uniform.

There is no better antidote against entertaining too high an opinion of
others, than having an excellent one of ourselves at the very same time.
Miss Stubbs had indeed summoned up every assistance which art could
afford to beauty; but, alas! hoop, patches, frizzled locks, and a
new mantua of genuine French silk, were lost upon a young officer of
dragoons, who wore, for the first time, his gold-laced hat, jack-boots,
and broadsword. I know not whether, like the champion of an old ballad,

His heart was all on honour bent,
He could not stoop to love;
No lady in the land had power
His frozen heart to move;

or whether the deep and flaming bars of embroidered gold, which now
fenced his breast, defied the artillery of Cecilia's eyes; but every
arrow was launched at him in vain.

Yet did I mark where Cupid's shaft did light;
It lighted not on little western flower,
But on bold yeoman, flower of all the west,
H