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The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of etc;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight;

She stood and listen'd to my lay,

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 play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not chusc
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 woo'd
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listen'd 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
That craz'd that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd 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 look'd him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And thnt he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that.unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band.
And sav'd from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and claspt 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;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay.

His dying words—but when I reach'd

That tenderest strain of all the ditty.

My faultering voice and pausing harp

Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
The music, and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope.
An undistinguishable thiong,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heav'd—she stept aside.
As conscious of my look she stept—
Then suddenly, with timorous eye.
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms.
She press'd me with a meek ■ embrace;
And bending back her head, look'd up.
And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear.
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calin'd her fears, and she was calm.
And told her love with virgin-pride.
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

WHOH THE AuraoR HAD Known In Tbb »»v» Of una Innocence.

Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped,

Finest in the gladsome ray, Soil'd beneath the common tread.

Far from thy protecting spray!

When the partridge o'er the sheaf
Whirr'd along the yellow vale,

Sad I saw thee,' heedless leaf!
Love the dalliance of the gale,

Lightly didst tlion. foolish thing!

Heave and flutter to his sighs, While the flatterer, on his wing,

Wooed and whisper'd thee to rise.

Gaily from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted highSoon on this unsheltcr'd walk

Flung to fade, to rot and die.

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

AT THE THEATRE.

Maiden, that with sullen hrow
Silst behind those virgins gay,

Like a scorch'd and mildew'd hough,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,

Fearful saw his pleading look,
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the yonth,
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;

Bnt no sound like simple truth,
Bnt no true love in his eye.

Loathing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe:

With a musing melancholy
Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of Self-dominion,
Firm thy steps, oh Melancholy!

The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
Is the memory of past folly.

Mate the sky-lark and forlorn,

While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

Or the bean-field's odorous blooms:

Soon with renovated wing
Shall she dare a loftier flight,

I pward to the day-star spring
And embathe in heavenly light

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERTROOM.

No*, cold, nor atern, my soul! yet I detest These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy

throng, "eaves the proud Harlot her distended breast, In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign

To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;

But when the long-breath'd singer's uptrill'd strain

Bursts in a squall—they gape for wonderment.

Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing

sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert Captain, or the primmer

Priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

O give me, from this heartless scene releas'd, To hear our old musician, blind and gray, (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I

kist) His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play. By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, The while I dance amid the tedded hay With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in

light Or lies the purple evening on the bay Of the calm glossy lake, oh let me hide Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees Around whose roots the fisher's boat is tied. On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at

ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

But oh, dear Anne! when midnight-wind

careers, And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm

crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The Things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass, mid the "heath-plant

waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way,

To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.

And sweet it is, in summer-Lower,

Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long heen doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his bark,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sick neBS is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that play st on Albion's shore!

TO A LADY.

WITH FALCONER'S SHIPWRECK.

Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams.
In arched groves, the youthful poet's
choice;
Nor while hnlf-list'ning, 'mid delicious
dreams,
To harp and song from lady's hand and
voice;

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood
On cliff, or cataract, in alpine dell;

Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed
strew'd,
Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he
sings,
And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark,
Pity, hark!
Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's
wings.
Now groans, and shivers, the rcplunging
Bark!

Cling to the shrowds!—In vain! The breakers

roar—

Death shrieks! With two alone of all his

clan,

Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore.

No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man!

Say then, what muse inspir'd these genial
strains,
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?
The elevating thought of snffer'd pains,
Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but
chief, the name

Of Gratitude! Remembrances of Friend,
Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past,

Which Love makes Substance! Hence to
thee I send,
0 dear as long as life and memory last!

I send with deep regards of heart and 'brad. Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember He!

[graphic]

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

If I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things.

And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:

I'm always with you in my sleep;

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee

I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear

And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,

Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!
A feeling that upbraids the heart
With happiness beyond desert,
That gladness half requests to weep!
Nor bless I not the keener sense
And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting
From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath Love's brooding wing.
And into tenderness soon dying.
Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again.

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they gsv.

And leave their sweeter understrain

Its own sweet self—a love of Thee

That seems, yet cannot greater be!

HYMN

BEFORE SIN-BISE, IN THE VALB OF CHAMOINV.

Beiidee the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources on the foot of Mount-Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers the Gentiana .Major grows in immense numbers, with its flowers of loveliest bine.

Hist thou a charm to stay the MorningStar In his steep coarse? So long he seems to

pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! Kisest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, is with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!

0 dread and silent Mount! I gaz'd upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. Didst vanish from my thought: entrane'd

in prayer

1 worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with

my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating soul, enrapt, trnnsfus'd, Into the mighty vision passing—there As in her natural form, swcll'd vast to heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret extacy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart,

awake! Green Vales and icy Cliffs, all join in v Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the Vale! 0 struggling with the Darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn, Thyself Earth's Rosv Star, and of the dawn Co-herald! wake, O w*nke, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? Whofill'd thy Countenance with rosy light? Who made t bee Parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! V* ho rall'd you forth from night and utter death,

From dark and icy caverns rall'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks
For ever shattered and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and

your joy,

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?

Ye lie-falls! ye that from the Mountain's brow

Adown enormous ravines slope amain—

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,

And stnpp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!

Motionless Torrents! silent Cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven

Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun

Cloath you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ?—

God ! let the Torrents, like a shout of Nations

Answer! and let the Ice-plains echo, God!

God! sing yc meadow - streams with gladsome voice f

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soullike sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost!

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!

Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountainstorm!

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the element!

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy skypo'nting peaks, Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering thro' the pure

serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast— Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow-travelling with dim eyes suffus'd with

tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before mc—Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of Incense, from the Earth! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,

292

Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to

Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent Sky,
And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising Sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises
God.

LINES

HK1TTKN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGBRODB, IN

TUB 111 111'/- FOR 1.-1 .

I Stood on Brocken's Bovran height, and
saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragg'd through fir.-groves

evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepul-
chral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom

heard,
The Bweet bird's song became an hollow

sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,_
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet

stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leapt frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
In low and languid mood: for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the life within:
Fair cyphers of vague import, where the eye
Traces no spot, in which the heart may read
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turned westward , shaping in the steady

clouds
Thv sands and high white cliffs! My native

J Land!

Filled with the thought of thee this heart

was proud,
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that nil

the view
From sovran Brocken,woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream.
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimcr spirit, who can feel
That God is every where! the God who

framed
Mankind to be one mighty Family,
Himself ourFather, and the world ourllome.

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM

ON TUB 1st OF FEBRUARY, 1796.

Swebt Flower! that peeping from thy
russet stem
Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort
This dark, freeze-coated, hoarse, teeth-
chattering Month
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gaz'd

upon thee
With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
Ev'n now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth
Nipp'dbyConsumption'mid untimely charms?
Or to Bristowa's Bard, the wondcroos boy!
An Amaranth, which Earth scarce scem'd to

own,
Blooming 'mid poverty's drear wintry waste,
Till Disappointment came and pelting Wrong
Beat it to Earth? or with indignant grief
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope.
Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening

bud?
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine
And mock my boding! Dim similitudes
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one

hour
From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master!
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame and harmonize
Th' attemper'd organ, that even saddest

thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh

tunes Play'd deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

THE EOLIAN HARP.

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad

leav'd Myrtle, (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Lovef) And watch the clouds, that late were rich

with light,
Slow sad'ning round, and mark the star of ei r
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world

so hush'd!
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of Silence. And that simplest Late.
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement.

hark!
How by the desultory breeze caress'd.
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover
It pours such sweet upbraidings, as muH

needs

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