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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

CLXXI

T

"HERE 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

CLXXII

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR

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
Has 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 !

O 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;
O! press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last.

P. B. Shelley

CLXXIII

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HE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meets 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

CLXXIV

HE was a phantom of delight

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 ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death :
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

W. Wordsworth

CLXXV

HE is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.
O then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,

To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.

H. Coleridge

CLXXVI

I

FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ;

Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ;
Thou needest not fear mine;

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