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Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
Beside the ruin'd tower.
Had blended with the lights of eve ;
My own dear Genevieve i She lean'd against the arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight ; She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving storyAn old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
But gaze upon her face.
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined ; and ah !
The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love
35 Interpreted my own. She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
40 But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, 45
And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade
50 And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight! And that, unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band,
The Lady of the Land ;
And how she tended him in vain ;
The scorn that crazed his brain ; 60 And that she nursed him in a cave,
And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay ; His dying words--but when I reach'd 65
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 70
The rich and balmy eve ;
An undistinguishable throng,
She blush'd with love and virgin shame ; And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name. 80
As conscious of my look she stept-
She fled to me and wept.
And gazed upon my face.
90 That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
And told her love with virgin pride ;
95 My bright and beauteous Bride.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
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 ?
5 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with allsuch from the head that is hoaryWhat care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? O Fame if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 9 '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 When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
15 I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
LORD BYRON. 170
And Greta woods are green,
you may gather garlands there
Was singing merrily :
10 I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen.'
To leave both tower and town,
That dwell by dale and down.
As read full well you may,
Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green ;
Than reign our English queen.
I read you by your bugle-horn
And by your palfrey good,
To keep the king's greenwood.' 'A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light ;
And mine at dead of night.'
And Greta woods are gay;
To reign his Queen of May !
With burnish'd brand and musketoon
So gallantly you come,
That lists the tuck of drum.'
No more the trumpet hear;
My comrades take the spear.
And Greta woods be gay,
Would reign my Queen of May !
• Maiden ! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I'll die ;
Were better mate than I !
Beneath the greenwood bough,-
Nor think what we are now.'