Where early violets die
Under the willow.

Eleu loro
Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day

Cool streams are laving : There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving ; There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,
Never again to wake
Never, O never!

Eleu loro
Never, O never !

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying;

Eleu loro
There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the falsehearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted : Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it
Never, O never !

Eleu loro
Never, O never !—Sir W. Scorr.

193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. “ O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering ?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.
“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arins,

So haggard and so woe-begone ?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

6. I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever-dew, ,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.”

“I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful-a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.
“I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ;
She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

“ I set her on my pacing steed

And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery's song.
“ She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said

• I love thee true.'

"She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,

P

And there I shut her wild wild

With kisses four.

“ And there she lulléd me asleep,

And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide ! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

“I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; They cried—' La belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall !'

" I saw their starved lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

“ And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake And no birds sing.”

J. KEATS.

194. THE ROVER.

** A weary lot is thine, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine !
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green-
No more of me you knew

My Love!
No more of me you knew.

“ The morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow

Ere we two meet again.”
He turn'd his charger as he spake

Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said “Adieu for evermore

My Love!
And adieu for evermore.”

SIR W. SCOTT.

195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.

When the lamp is shatter'd
The light in the dust lies dead-
When the cloud is scatter'd,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remember'd not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute-
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nests
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possesst.

O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier ?

Its passions will rock thee
As the storms rock the ravens on high ;
Bright reason will mock thee
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.

P. B. SHELLEY.

196. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,

And lovers' ears in hearing : And love, in life's extremity

Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower

And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower

To watch her Love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,

Her form decay'd by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,

You saw the taper shining.
By fits a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying : By fits so ashy pale she grew

Her maidens thought her dying