Her bosom heaved-she stepp'd aside, She half enclosed me with her arms, 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, My bright and beauteous Bride. S. T. COLERIDGE. 169. ALL FOR LOVE. O talk not to me of a name great in story; What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary— What care 1 for the wreaths that can only give glory? O Fame !-if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 170. THE OUTLAW. LORD BYRON. O Brignall banks are wild and fair, Would grace a summer-queen. And as I rode by Dalton-Hall A Maiden on the castle-wall "O Brignall banks are fresh and fair, I'd rather rove with Edmund there "If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed Yet sung she “Brignall banks are fair, I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen. "I read you by your bugle-horn His blast is heard at merry morn, I would I were with Edmund there "With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon But when the beetle sounds his hum Yet mickle must the maiden dare "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die! The fiend whose lantern lights the mead And when I'm with my comrades met What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now." Chorus. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer-queen. 171. SIR W. SCOTT. There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like Thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before thee With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. LORD BYRON 172. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I arise from dreams of Thee In the first sweet sleep of night, Has led me-who knows how? The wandering airs they faint O beloved as thou art ! O lift me from the grass! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! O! press it close to thine again P. B. SHELLEY. 173. She walks in beauty, like the night One shade the more, one ray the less |