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She half inclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace ;
And bending back her head, look'd up,

And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art
That I might rather feel, than sce,

The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride ;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.

S. T. Coleridge

CCXII

ALL FOR LOVE

O talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is

wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be

sprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is

hoaryWhat care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? Oh 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.

Lord Byron

CCXIII

THE OUTLAIV
O Brignail banks are wild and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there

Would grace a summer-queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-Hall

Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle-wall

Was singing merrily :
"O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green ;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen.' 'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,

To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we

That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,

As read full well you may,
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed

As blithe as Queen of May.'
Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair,

And Greta woods are green ;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen. 'I read you, by your bugle-horn

And by your palfrey good, I read you

To keep the king's greenwood.' 'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,

And ’tis at peep of light ;
His blast is heard at merry morn,

And mine at dead of night.'
Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair,

And Greta woods are gay ;
I would I were with Edmund there

To reign his Queen of May !

for a

ranger sworn

With burnish'd brand and musketoon

So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon

That lists the tuck of drum.'
'I list no more the tuck of drum,

No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum

My comrades take the spear.
And'o ! though Brignall banks be fair

And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare

Would reign my Queen of May! “Maiden ! a nameless life I lead,

A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead

Were better mate than I ! And when I'm with my comrades met

Beneath the greenwood bough,What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now.

Chorus 'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer-queen.'

Sir W. Scott

CCXIV

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming :

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving

As an infant's asleep :
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Lord Byron

CCXV

THE INDIAN SERENADE

I arise from dreams of Thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me who knows how ?
To thy chamber-window, Sweet !
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine
O beloved as thou art !
Oh lift me from the grass !
I die, I faint, I fail !
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas !
My heart beats loud and fast;
Oh! press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last.

P. B. Shelley

CCXVI

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She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent, --
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron

CCXVII

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight ;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament ;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty ;

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