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Where early violets die
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,
Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver,
Ruin, and leave her?
Borne down by the flying,
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 ;
193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. “ O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering ?
And no birds sing.
So haggard and so woe-begone ?
And the harvest's done.
6. I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew, ,
Fast withereth too.”
“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful-a faery's child,
And her eyes were wild.
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ;
And made sweet moan.
“ I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long,
A faery's song.
And honey wild and manna-dew,
• I love thee true.'
"She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,
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.”
194. THE ROVER.
** A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine !
And press the rue for wine.
A feather of the blue,
“ The morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
Ere we two meet again.”
Upon the river shore,
SIR W. SCOTT.
195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.
When the lamp is shatter'd
As music and splendour
When hearts have once mingled,
O Love! who bewailest
Its passions will rock thee
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,
You saw the taper shining.
Across her cheek was flying : By fits so ashy pale she grew
Her maidens thought her dying