She lean'd against the armèd man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, I The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and ah ! She listen'd with a flitting blush, 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, There came and look'd him in the face And that unknowing what he did, And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain ; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain; And that she nursed him in a cave, His dying words-but when I reach'd 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; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, She wept with pity and delight, Her bosom heaved-she stepp'd aside, She half inclosed me with her arms, "Twas partly love, and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, My bright and beauteous Bride. SAMUEL TAYLOR Coleridge I I HELD HER HAND HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss, She bent her head before my kiss, My heart was sure that hers was true. Now I have told her I must part, She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, AF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ROSE AYLMER 1 H! what avails the sceptred race! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR EXEGI MONUMENTUM PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, "This man loved me!" then rise and trip away. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 1 Rose Aylmer was the youngest daughter of Henry, fourth Baron Aylmer. She went to India and died there in 1800Landor being then twenty-five years old. These verses are surely among the sweetest laments ever written. THE THE MAID I LOVE 'HE maid I love ne'er thought of me But when her heart or mine sank low, From the slant palm she raised her head, Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR TWENTY YEARS HENCE TWENT Yet WENTY years hence my eyes may grow, yours from others they shall know Twenty years hence, tho' it may hap There breathe but o'er my arch of grass A not too-sadly sigh'd Alas, And I shall catch, ere you can pass, That winged word. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR |