Weeping, weeping late and early,

Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,

Burleigh-house, by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her,

And he looked at her and said, “ Bring the dress, and put it on her,

That she wore when she was wed.”
Then her people, softly treading,

Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,

That her spirit might have rest.

TENNYSON.

She was a phantom of Delight.

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed 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 way-lay.

WORDSWORTH.

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 planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

WORDSWORTH.

Love.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I

Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay

Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene

Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve!
She leaned against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my harp,

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 played a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that fitted well

The ruin wild and hoary.
She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand, And that for ten long years he wooed

The Lady of the Land.

COLERIDGE.

I told her how he pined; and, ah!

The low, the deep, the pleading tone,
With which I sang another's love,

Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed

Too fondly on her face!
But when I told the cruel scorn

Which crazed this bold and lovely knight, And that he crossed the mountain woods,

Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once,

In green and sunny glade,
There came, and looked him in the face,

An angel, beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,

This miserable knight!

And how, unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death

The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept and clasped his knees,

And how she tended him in vainAnd ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain ;

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 reached

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music, and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng !
And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherished long! She wept with pity and delight,

She blushed with love and maiden shame; And, like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside;

As conscious of my look, she stepped —
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,

She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,

She pressed me with a meek embrace,
And, bending back her head, looked up,

And gazed upon my face.