CLXIXWRESTLING JACOB.

Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melancholy marked him for her own.120Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to misery all he had, a tear;He gained from Heaven, ’twas all he wished, a friend.No farther seek his merits to disclose,125Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose;)The bosom of his Father and his God.Thomas Gray.

Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melancholy marked him for her own.120

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own.120

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to misery all he had, a tear;He gained from Heaven, ’twas all he wished, a friend.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to misery all he had, a tear;

He gained from Heaven, ’twas all he wished, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,125Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose;)The bosom of his Father and his God.Thomas Gray.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,125

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose;)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray.

Come, O Thou traveller unknown,Whom still I hold, but cannot see,My company before is gone,And I am left alone with Thee;With Thee all night I mean to stay,5And wrestle till the break of day.I need not tell Thee who I am,My misery or sin declare;Thyself hast called me by my name;Look on thy hands, and read it there!10But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?Tell me thy Name, and tell me now.In vain Thou strugglest to get free,I never will unloose my hold;Art Thou the Man that died for me?15The secret of thy love untold.Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.Wilt Thou not yet to me revealThy new, unutterable Name?20Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:To know it now, resolved I am:Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.’Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue,25Or touch the hollow of my thigh;Though every sinew be unstrung,Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly:Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.30What though my shrinking flesh complain,And murmur to contend so long?I rise superior to my pain;When I am weak, then am I strong:And when my all of strength shall fail,35I shall with the God-Man prevail.My strength is gone; my nature dies;I sink beneath thy weighty hand;Faint to revive, and fall to rise;I fall, and yet by faith I stand:40I stand, and will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.Yield to me now, for I am weak,But confident in self-despair;Speak to my heart, in blessings speak,45Be conquered by my instant prayer!Speak, or Thou never hence shall move,And tell me, if thy Name be Love?’Tis Love! ’tis Love! Thou diedst for me!I hear thy whisper in my heart!50The morning breaks, the shadows flee;Pure universal Love Thou art!To me, to all, thy bowels move;Thy nature and thy Name is Love!My prayer hath power with God; the grace55Unspeakable I now receive;Through faith I see Thee face to face,I see Thee face to face, and live:In vain I have not wept and strove;Thy nature and thy Name is Love.60I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art;Jesus, the feeble sinner’s Friend!Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,But stay, and love me to the end!Thy mercies never shall remove,65Thy nature and thy Name is Love!The Sun of Righteousness on meHath rose, with healing in his wings;Withered my nature’s strength, from TheeMy soul its life and succour brings;70My help is all laid up above;Thy nature and thy Name is Love.Contented now upon my thighI halt, till life’s short journey end;All helplessness, all weakness, I75On Thee alone for strength depend;Nor have I power from Thee to move;Thy nature and thy Name is Love.Lame as I am, I take the prey,Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o’ercome;80I leap for joy, pursue my way,And, as a bounding hart, fly home;Through all eternity to prove,Thy nature and thy Name is Love!Charles Wesley.

Come, O Thou traveller unknown,Whom still I hold, but cannot see,My company before is gone,And I am left alone with Thee;With Thee all night I mean to stay,5And wrestle till the break of day.

Come, O Thou traveller unknown,

Whom still I hold, but cannot see,

My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with Thee;

With Thee all night I mean to stay,5

And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell Thee who I am,My misery or sin declare;Thyself hast called me by my name;Look on thy hands, and read it there!10But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?Tell me thy Name, and tell me now.

I need not tell Thee who I am,

My misery or sin declare;

Thyself hast called me by my name;

Look on thy hands, and read it there!10

But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?

Tell me thy Name, and tell me now.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free,I never will unloose my hold;Art Thou the Man that died for me?15The secret of thy love untold.Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free,

I never will unloose my hold;

Art Thou the Man that died for me?15

The secret of thy love untold.

Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,

Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

Wilt Thou not yet to me revealThy new, unutterable Name?20Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:To know it now, resolved I am:Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal

Thy new, unutterable Name?20

Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:

To know it now, resolved I am:

Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,

Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

’Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue,25Or touch the hollow of my thigh;Though every sinew be unstrung,Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly:Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.30

’Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue,25

Or touch the hollow of my thigh;

Though every sinew be unstrung,

Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly:

Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,

Till I thy Name, thy nature know.30

What though my shrinking flesh complain,And murmur to contend so long?I rise superior to my pain;When I am weak, then am I strong:And when my all of strength shall fail,35I shall with the God-Man prevail.

What though my shrinking flesh complain,

And murmur to contend so long?

I rise superior to my pain;

When I am weak, then am I strong:

And when my all of strength shall fail,35

I shall with the God-Man prevail.

My strength is gone; my nature dies;I sink beneath thy weighty hand;Faint to revive, and fall to rise;I fall, and yet by faith I stand:40I stand, and will not let Thee go,Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

My strength is gone; my nature dies;

I sink beneath thy weighty hand;

Faint to revive, and fall to rise;

I fall, and yet by faith I stand:40

I stand, and will not let Thee go,

Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

Yield to me now, for I am weak,But confident in self-despair;Speak to my heart, in blessings speak,45Be conquered by my instant prayer!Speak, or Thou never hence shall move,And tell me, if thy Name be Love?

Yield to me now, for I am weak,

But confident in self-despair;

Speak to my heart, in blessings speak,45

Be conquered by my instant prayer!

Speak, or Thou never hence shall move,

And tell me, if thy Name be Love?

’Tis Love! ’tis Love! Thou diedst for me!I hear thy whisper in my heart!50The morning breaks, the shadows flee;Pure universal Love Thou art!To me, to all, thy bowels move;Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

’Tis Love! ’tis Love! Thou diedst for me!

I hear thy whisper in my heart!50

The morning breaks, the shadows flee;

Pure universal Love Thou art!

To me, to all, thy bowels move;

Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

My prayer hath power with God; the grace55Unspeakable I now receive;Through faith I see Thee face to face,I see Thee face to face, and live:In vain I have not wept and strove;Thy nature and thy Name is Love.60

My prayer hath power with God; the grace55

Unspeakable I now receive;

Through faith I see Thee face to face,

I see Thee face to face, and live:

In vain I have not wept and strove;

Thy nature and thy Name is Love.60

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art;Jesus, the feeble sinner’s Friend!Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,But stay, and love me to the end!Thy mercies never shall remove,65Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art;

Jesus, the feeble sinner’s Friend!

Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,

But stay, and love me to the end!

Thy mercies never shall remove,65

Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

The Sun of Righteousness on meHath rose, with healing in his wings;Withered my nature’s strength, from TheeMy soul its life and succour brings;70My help is all laid up above;Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

The Sun of Righteousness on me

Hath rose, with healing in his wings;

Withered my nature’s strength, from Thee

My soul its life and succour brings;70

My help is all laid up above;

Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

Contented now upon my thighI halt, till life’s short journey end;All helplessness, all weakness, I75On Thee alone for strength depend;Nor have I power from Thee to move;Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

Contented now upon my thigh

I halt, till life’s short journey end;

All helplessness, all weakness, I75

On Thee alone for strength depend;

Nor have I power from Thee to move;

Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

Lame as I am, I take the prey,Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o’ercome;80I leap for joy, pursue my way,And, as a bounding hart, fly home;Through all eternity to prove,Thy nature and thy Name is Love!Charles Wesley.

Lame as I am, I take the prey,

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o’ercome;80

I leap for joy, pursue my way,

And, as a bounding hart, fly home;

Through all eternity to prove,

Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

Charles Wesley.

O blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,Or but a wandering Voice?While I am lying on the grass,5Thy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,10Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,15A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my school-boy daysI listened to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.20To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still longed for, never seen!And I can listen to thee yet;25Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blessèd bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to be30An unsubstantial, fairy placeThat is fit home for thee!William Wordsworth.

O blithe new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,Or but a wandering Voice?

O blithe new-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass,5Thy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.

While I am lying on the grass,5

Thy twofold shout I hear;

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,10Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.

Though babbling only to the vale

Of sunshine and of flowers,10

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,15A voice, a mystery;

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,15

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy daysI listened to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.20

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky.20

To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still longed for, never seen!

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;

And thou wert still a hope, a love;

Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;25Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.

And I can listen to thee yet;25

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessèd bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to be30An unsubstantial, fairy placeThat is fit home for thee!William Wordsworth.

O blessèd bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be30

An unsubstantial, fairy place

That is fit home for thee!

William Wordsworth.

Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky,When storms prepare to part,I ask not proud PhilosophyTo teach me what thou art.Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight,5A mid-way station givenFor happy spirits to alight,Betwixt the earth and heaven.Can all that optics teach, unfoldThy form to please me so,10As when I dreamed of gems and goldHid in thy radiant bow?When Science from Creation’s faceEnchantment’s veil withdraws,What lovely visions yield their place15To cold material laws!And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,But words of the Most High,Have told why first thy robe of beamsWas woven in the sky.20When o’er the green undeluged earth,Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,How came the world’s gray fathers forthTo watch thy sacred sign!And when its yellow lustre smiled25O’er mountains yet untrod,Each mother held aloft her childTo bless the bow of God.Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,The first-made anthem rang30On earth, delivered from the deep,And the first poet sang.Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye,Unraptured, greet thy beam;Theme of primeval prophecy,35Be still the poet’s theme!The earth to thee her incense yields,The lark thy welcome sings,When, glittering in the freshened fields,The snowy mushroom springs.40How glorious is thy girdle castO’er mountain, tower, and town,Or mirrored in the ocean vast,A thousand fathoms down!As fresh in yon horizon dark,45As young thy beauties seem,As when the eagle from the arkFirst sported in thy beam.For, faithful to its sacred page,Heaven still rebuilds thy span,50Nor lets the type grow pale with age,That first spoke peace to man.Thomas Campbell.

Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky,When storms prepare to part,I ask not proud PhilosophyTo teach me what thou art.

Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky,

When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight,5A mid-way station givenFor happy spirits to alight,Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight,5

A mid-way station given

For happy spirits to alight,

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfoldThy form to please me so,10As when I dreamed of gems and goldHid in thy radiant bow?

Can all that optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so,10

As when I dreamed of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation’s faceEnchantment’s veil withdraws,What lovely visions yield their place15To cold material laws!

When Science from Creation’s face

Enchantment’s veil withdraws,

What lovely visions yield their place15

To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,But words of the Most High,Have told why first thy robe of beamsWas woven in the sky.20

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High,

Have told why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky.20

When o’er the green undeluged earth,Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,How came the world’s gray fathers forthTo watch thy sacred sign!

When o’er the green undeluged earth,

Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,

How came the world’s gray fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled25O’er mountains yet untrod,Each mother held aloft her childTo bless the bow of God.

And when its yellow lustre smiled25

O’er mountains yet untrod,

Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,The first-made anthem rang30On earth, delivered from the deep,And the first poet sang.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang30

On earth, delivered from the deep,

And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye,Unraptured, greet thy beam;Theme of primeval prophecy,35Be still the poet’s theme!

Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye,

Unraptured, greet thy beam;

Theme of primeval prophecy,35

Be still the poet’s theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,The lark thy welcome sings,When, glittering in the freshened fields,The snowy mushroom springs.40

The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,

When, glittering in the freshened fields,

The snowy mushroom springs.40

How glorious is thy girdle castO’er mountain, tower, and town,Or mirrored in the ocean vast,A thousand fathoms down!

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O’er mountain, tower, and town,

Or mirrored in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,45As young thy beauties seem,As when the eagle from the arkFirst sported in thy beam.

As fresh in yon horizon dark,45

As young thy beauties seem,

As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,Heaven still rebuilds thy span,50Nor lets the type grow pale with age,That first spoke peace to man.Thomas Campbell.

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,50

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,

That first spoke peace to man.

Thomas Campbell.

Once, in the flight of ages past,There lived a man:—andWHOwasHE?—Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast,That Man resembled thee.Unknown the region of his birth,5The land in which he died unknown:His name has perished from the earth;This truth survives alone:—That joy and grief, and hope and fear,Alternate triumphed in his breast;10His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear!—Oblivion hides the rest.The bounding pulse, the languid limb,The changing spirits’ rise and fall,We know that these were felt by him,15For these are felt by all.He suffered,—but his pangs are o’er;Enjoyed,—but his delights are fled;Had friends,—his friends are now no more;And foes,—his foes are dead.20He loved,—but whom he loved, the graveHath lost in its unconscious womb:Oh she was fair!—but nought could saveHer beauty from the tomb.He saw whatever thou hast seen;25Encountered all that troubles thee:He was—whatever thou hast been;He is—what thou shalt be.The rolling seasons, day and night,Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,30Erewhile his portion, life, and light,To him exist in vain.The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eyeThat once their shades and glory threw,Have left in yonder silent sky35No vestige where they flew.The annals of the human race,Their ruins since the world began,OfHIMafford no other traceThan this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!40James Montgomery.

Once, in the flight of ages past,There lived a man:—andWHOwasHE?—Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast,That Man resembled thee.

Once, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man:—andWHOwasHE?—

Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast,

That Man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,5The land in which he died unknown:His name has perished from the earth;This truth survives alone:—

Unknown the region of his birth,5

The land in which he died unknown:

His name has perished from the earth;

This truth survives alone:—

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,Alternate triumphed in his breast;10His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear!—Oblivion hides the rest.

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,

Alternate triumphed in his breast;10

His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear!—

Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,The changing spirits’ rise and fall,We know that these were felt by him,15For these are felt by all.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,

The changing spirits’ rise and fall,

We know that these were felt by him,15

For these are felt by all.

He suffered,—but his pangs are o’er;Enjoyed,—but his delights are fled;Had friends,—his friends are now no more;And foes,—his foes are dead.20

He suffered,—but his pangs are o’er;

Enjoyed,—but his delights are fled;

Had friends,—his friends are now no more;

And foes,—his foes are dead.20

He loved,—but whom he loved, the graveHath lost in its unconscious womb:Oh she was fair!—but nought could saveHer beauty from the tomb.

He loved,—but whom he loved, the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb:

Oh she was fair!—but nought could save

Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;25Encountered all that troubles thee:He was—whatever thou hast been;He is—what thou shalt be.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;25

Encountered all that troubles thee:

He was—whatever thou hast been;

He is—what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,30Erewhile his portion, life, and light,To him exist in vain.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,30

Erewhile his portion, life, and light,

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eyeThat once their shades and glory threw,Have left in yonder silent sky35No vestige where they flew.

The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye

That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky35

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,Their ruins since the world began,OfHIMafford no other traceThan this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!40James Montgomery.

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins since the world began,

OfHIMafford no other trace

Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!40

James Montgomery.

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to seeThe Holly Tree?The eye that contemplates it well perceivesIts glossy leavesOrdered by an Intelligence so wise,5As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seenWrinkled and keen;No grazing cattle through their prickly roundCan reach to wound;10But, as they grow where nothing is to fear,Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.I love to view these things with curious eyes,And moralize;And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree15Can emblems see,Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,One which may profit in the after-time.Thus, though abroad perchance I might appearHarsh and austere;20To those who on my leisure would intrude,Reserved and rude;—Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,25Some harshness show,All vain asperities I day by dayWould wear away,Till the smooth temper of my age should beLike the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.30And as when all the summer trees are seenSo bright and green,The Holly leaves a sober hue displayLess bright than they;But when the bare and wintry woods we see,35What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?So serious should my youth appear amongThe thoughtless throng;So would I seem amid the young and gayMore grave than they;40That in my age as cheerful I might beAs the green winter of the Holly Tree.Robert Southey.

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to seeThe Holly Tree?The eye that contemplates it well perceivesIts glossy leavesOrdered by an Intelligence so wise,5As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see

The Holly Tree?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives

Its glossy leaves

Ordered by an Intelligence so wise,5

As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seenWrinkled and keen;No grazing cattle through their prickly roundCan reach to wound;10But, as they grow where nothing is to fear,Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen

Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round

Can reach to wound;10

But, as they grow where nothing is to fear,

Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,And moralize;And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree15Can emblems see,Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,One which may profit in the after-time.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree15

Can emblems see,

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,

One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appearHarsh and austere;20To those who on my leisure would intrude,Reserved and rude;—Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear

Harsh and austere;20

To those who on my leisure would intrude,

Reserved and rude;—

Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,

Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,25Some harshness show,All vain asperities I day by dayWould wear away,Till the smooth temper of my age should beLike the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.30

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,25

Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be

Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.30

And as when all the summer trees are seenSo bright and green,The Holly leaves a sober hue displayLess bright than they;But when the bare and wintry woods we see,35What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?

And as when all the summer trees are seen

So bright and green,

The Holly leaves a sober hue display

Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,35

What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?

So serious should my youth appear amongThe thoughtless throng;So would I seem amid the young and gayMore grave than they;40That in my age as cheerful I might beAs the green winter of the Holly Tree.Robert Southey.

So serious should my youth appear among

The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem amid the young and gay

More grave than they;40

That in my age as cheerful I might be

As the green winter of the Holly Tree.

Robert Southey.

A slanting ray of evening lightShoots through the yellow pane:It makes the faded crimson bright,And gilds the fringe again;The window’s gothic framework falls5In oblique shadows on the walls.And since those trappings first were new,How many a cloudless day,To rob the velvet of its hue,Has come and passed away!10How many a setting sun hath madeThat curious lattice-work of shade!Crumbled beneath the hillock greenThe cunning hand must be,That carved this fretted door, I ween,15Acorn and fleur-de-lis;And now the worm hath done her partIn mimicking the chisel’s art.In days of yore (as now we call)When the First James was king,20The courtly knight from yonder HallHis train did hither bring,All seated round in order due,With broidered suit and buckled shoe.On damask cushions decked with fringe,25All reverently they knelt;Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,In ancient English spelt,Each holding in a lily hand,Responsive to the priest’s command.30Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,The sunbeam, long and lone,Illumes the characters awhileOf their inscription-stone:And there, in marble hard and cold,35The knight with all his train behold.Outstretched together are exprestHe and my lady fair,With hands uplifted on the breast,In attitude of prayer:40Long-visaged, clad in armour, he—With ruffled arm and bodice she.Set forth in order as they died,Their numerous offspring bend,Devoutly kneeling side by side,45As if they did intendFor past omissions to atoneBy saying endless prayers in stone.Those mellow days are past and dim,But generations new50In regular descent from himHave filled the stately pew,And in the same succession goTo occupy the vaults below.And now the polished modern Squire55And his gay train appear,Who duly to the Hall retireA season every year,And fill the seats with belle and beau,As ’twas so many years ago;60Perchance, all thoughtless, as they treadThe hollow-sounding floor,Of that dark house of kindred dead,Which shall, as heretofore,In turn receive to silent rest65Another and another guest:The feathered hearse and sable train,In all their wonted state,Shall wind along the village lane,And stand before the gate,70Brought many a distant county through,To join the final rendezvous.And when the race is swept away,All to their dusty beds,Still shall the mellow evening ray75Shine gaily o’er their heads;While other faces, fresh and new,Shall fill the Squire’s deserted pew.Jane Taylor.

A slanting ray of evening lightShoots through the yellow pane:It makes the faded crimson bright,And gilds the fringe again;The window’s gothic framework falls5In oblique shadows on the walls.

A slanting ray of evening light

Shoots through the yellow pane:

It makes the faded crimson bright,

And gilds the fringe again;

The window’s gothic framework falls5

In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new,How many a cloudless day,To rob the velvet of its hue,Has come and passed away!10How many a setting sun hath madeThat curious lattice-work of shade!

And since those trappings first were new,

How many a cloudless day,

To rob the velvet of its hue,

Has come and passed away!10

How many a setting sun hath made

That curious lattice-work of shade!

Crumbled beneath the hillock greenThe cunning hand must be,That carved this fretted door, I ween,15Acorn and fleur-de-lis;And now the worm hath done her partIn mimicking the chisel’s art.

Crumbled beneath the hillock green

The cunning hand must be,

That carved this fretted door, I ween,15

Acorn and fleur-de-lis;

And now the worm hath done her part

In mimicking the chisel’s art.

In days of yore (as now we call)When the First James was king,20The courtly knight from yonder HallHis train did hither bring,All seated round in order due,With broidered suit and buckled shoe.

In days of yore (as now we call)

When the First James was king,20

The courtly knight from yonder Hall

His train did hither bring,

All seated round in order due,

With broidered suit and buckled shoe.

On damask cushions decked with fringe,25All reverently they knelt;Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,In ancient English spelt,Each holding in a lily hand,Responsive to the priest’s command.30

On damask cushions decked with fringe,25

All reverently they knelt;

Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,

In ancient English spelt,

Each holding in a lily hand,

Responsive to the priest’s command.30

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,The sunbeam, long and lone,Illumes the characters awhileOf their inscription-stone:And there, in marble hard and cold,35The knight with all his train behold.

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,

The sunbeam, long and lone,

Illumes the characters awhile

Of their inscription-stone:

And there, in marble hard and cold,35

The knight with all his train behold.

Outstretched together are exprestHe and my lady fair,With hands uplifted on the breast,In attitude of prayer:40Long-visaged, clad in armour, he—With ruffled arm and bodice she.

Outstretched together are exprest

He and my lady fair,

With hands uplifted on the breast,

In attitude of prayer:40

Long-visaged, clad in armour, he—

With ruffled arm and bodice she.

Set forth in order as they died,Their numerous offspring bend,Devoutly kneeling side by side,45As if they did intendFor past omissions to atoneBy saying endless prayers in stone.

Set forth in order as they died,

Their numerous offspring bend,

Devoutly kneeling side by side,45

As if they did intend

For past omissions to atone

By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim,But generations new50In regular descent from himHave filled the stately pew,And in the same succession goTo occupy the vaults below.

Those mellow days are past and dim,

But generations new50

In regular descent from him

Have filled the stately pew,

And in the same succession go

To occupy the vaults below.

And now the polished modern Squire55And his gay train appear,Who duly to the Hall retireA season every year,And fill the seats with belle and beau,As ’twas so many years ago;60

And now the polished modern Squire55

And his gay train appear,

Who duly to the Hall retire

A season every year,

And fill the seats with belle and beau,

As ’twas so many years ago;60

Perchance, all thoughtless, as they treadThe hollow-sounding floor,Of that dark house of kindred dead,Which shall, as heretofore,In turn receive to silent rest65Another and another guest:

Perchance, all thoughtless, as they tread

The hollow-sounding floor,

Of that dark house of kindred dead,

Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn receive to silent rest65

Another and another guest:

The feathered hearse and sable train,In all their wonted state,Shall wind along the village lane,And stand before the gate,70Brought many a distant county through,To join the final rendezvous.

The feathered hearse and sable train,

In all their wonted state,

Shall wind along the village lane,

And stand before the gate,70

Brought many a distant county through,

To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,All to their dusty beds,Still shall the mellow evening ray75Shine gaily o’er their heads;While other faces, fresh and new,Shall fill the Squire’s deserted pew.Jane Taylor.

And when the race is swept away,

All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray75

Shine gaily o’er their heads;

While other faces, fresh and new,

Shall fill the Squire’s deserted pew.

Jane Taylor.

Once a dream did weave a shadeO’er my angel-guarded bed,That an emmet lost its wayWhere on grass methought I lay.Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn,5Dark, benighted, travel-worn,Over many a tangled spray,All heart-broke, I heard her say:‘Oh, my children! do they cry,Do they hear their father sigh?10Now they look abroad to see,Now return and weep for me.’Pitying, I dropped a tear:But I saw a glowworm near,Who replied, ‘What wailing wight15Calls the watchman of the night?‘I am set to light the ground,While the beetle goes his round.Follow now the beetle’s hum,Little wanderer, hie thee home!’20William Blake.

Once a dream did weave a shadeO’er my angel-guarded bed,That an emmet lost its wayWhere on grass methought I lay.

Once a dream did weave a shade

O’er my angel-guarded bed,

That an emmet lost its way

Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn,5Dark, benighted, travel-worn,Over many a tangled spray,All heart-broke, I heard her say:

Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn,5

Dark, benighted, travel-worn,

Over many a tangled spray,

All heart-broke, I heard her say:

‘Oh, my children! do they cry,Do they hear their father sigh?10Now they look abroad to see,Now return and weep for me.’

‘Oh, my children! do they cry,

Do they hear their father sigh?10

Now they look abroad to see,

Now return and weep for me.’

Pitying, I dropped a tear:But I saw a glowworm near,Who replied, ‘What wailing wight15Calls the watchman of the night?

Pitying, I dropped a tear:

But I saw a glowworm near,

Who replied, ‘What wailing wight15

Calls the watchman of the night?

‘I am set to light the ground,While the beetle goes his round.Follow now the beetle’s hum,Little wanderer, hie thee home!’20William Blake.

‘I am set to light the ground,

While the beetle goes his round.

Follow now the beetle’s hum,

Little wanderer, hie thee home!’20

William Blake.

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light,Winter’s pale dawn; and as warm fires illume,And cheerful tapers shine around the room,Through misty windows bend my musing sight,Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white5With shutters closed peer faintly through the gloom,That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume,Rising from their dark pile, an added heightBy indistinctness given—Then to decreeThe grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold10To friendship or the Muse, or seek with gleeWisdom’s rich page. O hours more worth than gold,By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, freeFrom drear decays of age, outlive the old!Anna Seward.

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light,

Winter’s pale dawn; and as warm fires illume,

And cheerful tapers shine around the room,

Through misty windows bend my musing sight,

Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white5

With shutters closed peer faintly through the gloom,

That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume,

Rising from their dark pile, an added height

By indistinctness given—Then to decree

The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold10

To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee

Wisdom’s rich page. O hours more worth than gold,

By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free

From drear decays of age, outlive the old!

Anna Seward.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,That overhung a molehill large and round,I heard from morn to morn a merry thrushSing hymns of rapture, while I drank the soundWith joy—and oft, an unintruding guest,5I watched her secret toils from day to day;How true she warped the moss to form her nest,And modelled it within with wood and clay.And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,10Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:And there I witnessed in the summer hoursA brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.John Clare.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,

That overhung a molehill large and round,

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush

Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound

With joy—and oft, an unintruding guest,5

I watched her secret toils from day to day;

How true she warped the moss to form her nest,

And modelled it within with wood and clay.

And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,

There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,10

Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:

And there I witnessed in the summer hours

A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,

Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

John Clare.

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to laySoftest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence,Lulling to sad repose the weary sense,The faint pang stealest unperceived away;On thee I rest my only hope at last,5And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tearThat flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,I may look back on every sorrow pastAnd meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile;As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,10Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient showerForgetful, though its wings are wet the while;Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure.William Lisle Bowles.

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay

Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence,

Lulling to sad repose the weary sense,

The faint pang stealest unperceived away;

On thee I rest my only hope at last,5

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear

That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,

I may look back on every sorrow past

And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile;

As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,10

Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower

Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while;

Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,

Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure.

William Lisle Bowles.

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,To make the shifting clouds be what you please,Or let the easily-persuaded eyesOwn each quaint likeness issuing from the mould5Of a friend’s fancy; or, with head bent low,And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold,’Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller goFrom mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous land!Or, listening to the tide with closèd sight,10Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand,By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,Beheld the Iliad and the OdysseeRise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,

To make the shifting clouds be what you please,

Or let the easily-persuaded eyes

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould5

Of a friend’s fancy; or, with head bent low,

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold,

’Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go

From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous land!

Or, listening to the tide with closèd sight,10

Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand,

By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,

Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a nunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquillity;The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:5Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder—everlastingly.Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought,10Thy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;And worshipp’st at the temple’s inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.William Wordsworth.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;

The holy time is quiet as a nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:5

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder—everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought,10

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;

And worshipp’st at the temple’s inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

William Wordsworth.

I will not praise the often-flattered rose,Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen,Or when, in dazzling splendour, like a queen,All her magnificence of state she shows;No, nor that nun-like lily which but blows5Beneath the valley’s cool and shady screen;Nor yet the sun-flower, that with warrior mienStill eyes the orb of glory where it glows;But thou, neglected Wall-flower! to my breastAnd Muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower!10To whom alone the privilege is givenProudly to root thyself above the rest;As Genius does, and from thy rocky towerLend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven.Thomas Doubleday.

I will not praise the often-flattered rose,

Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen,

Or when, in dazzling splendour, like a queen,

All her magnificence of state she shows;

No, nor that nun-like lily which but blows5

Beneath the valley’s cool and shady screen;

Nor yet the sun-flower, that with warrior mien

Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows;

But thou, neglected Wall-flower! to my breast

And Muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower!10

To whom alone the privilege is given

Proudly to root thyself above the rest;

As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower

Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven.

Thomas Doubleday.

Hardly we breathe, although the air be free:How massively doth awful Nature pileThe living rock, like some cathedral aisle,Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea.How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly,5And under its glassed waters seems to smile,With many hues, a mimic grove the whileOf foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree.Beautiful scene! and fitted to allureThe printless footsteps of some sea-born maid,10Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed,’Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure,May sport at noontide in the caverned shade—Cold as the shadow—as the waters pure.Thomas Doubleday.

Hardly we breathe, although the air be free:

How massively doth awful Nature pile

The living rock, like some cathedral aisle,

Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea.

How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly,5

And under its glassed waters seems to smile,

With many hues, a mimic grove the while

Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree.

Beautiful scene! and fitted to allure

The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid,10

Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed,

’Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure,

May sport at noontide in the caverned shade—

Cold as the shadow—as the waters pure.

Thomas Doubleday.

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green;Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,Till into the high dome of Paul’s, they like Thames’ waters flow.O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town,5Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own:The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,9Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor.Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.William Blake.

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green;

Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul’s, they like Thames’ waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town,5Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own:The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town,5

Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own:

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,

Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,9Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor.Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.William Blake.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,9

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:

Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor.

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

William Blake.

This was the ruler of the land,When Athens was the land of fame;This was the light that led the band,When each was like a living flame;The centre of earth’s noblest ring—5Of more than men the more than king!Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,His sovereignty was held or won:Feared—but alone as freemen fear,Loved—but as freemen love alone,10He waved the sceptre o’er his kindBy nature’s first great title—mind!Resistless words were on his tongue—Then eloquence first flashed below;Full armed to life the portent sprung—15Minerva from the Thunderer’s brow!And his the sole, the sacred handThat shook her ægis o’er the land.And throned immortal by his side,A woman sits with eye sublime,—20Aspasia, all his spirit’s bride;But, if their solemn love were crime,Pity the Beauty and the Sage—Their crime was in their darkened age.He perished, but his wreath was won—25He perished in his height of fame;Then sunk the cloud on Athens’ sun,Yet still she conquered in his name.Filled with his soul, she could not die;Her conquest was posterity30George Croly.

This was the ruler of the land,

When Athens was the land of fame;

This was the light that led the band,

When each was like a living flame;

The centre of earth’s noblest ring—5

Of more than men the more than king!

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,His sovereignty was held or won:Feared—but alone as freemen fear,Loved—but as freemen love alone,10He waved the sceptre o’er his kindBy nature’s first great title—mind!

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,

His sovereignty was held or won:

Feared—but alone as freemen fear,

Loved—but as freemen love alone,10

He waved the sceptre o’er his kind

By nature’s first great title—mind!

Resistless words were on his tongue—Then eloquence first flashed below;Full armed to life the portent sprung—15Minerva from the Thunderer’s brow!And his the sole, the sacred handThat shook her ægis o’er the land.

Resistless words were on his tongue—

Then eloquence first flashed below;

Full armed to life the portent sprung—15

Minerva from the Thunderer’s brow!

And his the sole, the sacred hand

That shook her ægis o’er the land.

And throned immortal by his side,A woman sits with eye sublime,—20Aspasia, all his spirit’s bride;But, if their solemn love were crime,Pity the Beauty and the Sage—Their crime was in their darkened age.

And throned immortal by his side,

A woman sits with eye sublime,—20

Aspasia, all his spirit’s bride;

But, if their solemn love were crime,

Pity the Beauty and the Sage—

Their crime was in their darkened age.

He perished, but his wreath was won—25He perished in his height of fame;Then sunk the cloud on Athens’ sun,Yet still she conquered in his name.Filled with his soul, she could not die;Her conquest was posterity30George Croly.

He perished, but his wreath was won—25

He perished in his height of fame;

Then sunk the cloud on Athens’ sun,

Yet still she conquered in his name.

Filled with his soul, she could not die;

Her conquest was posterity30

George Croly.

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 I5Live 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;10And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!She leaned against the armèd man,The statue of the armèd knight;She stood and listened to my lay,15Amid the lingering light.Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene’er I singThe songs that make her grieve.20I played a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.She listened with a flitting blush,25With downcast eyes, and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;30And that for ten long years he wooedThe Lady of the Land.I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another’s love,35Interpreted my own.She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face.40But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he crossed the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;That sometimes from the savage den,45And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade,—There came and looked him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;50And that he knew it was a fiend,This miserable Knight!And that unknowing what he did,He leaped amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than death55The Lady of the Land;—And how she wept, and clasped his knees,And how she tended him in vain;And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;—60And that she nursed him in a cave;And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay;—His dying words—but when I reached65That tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturbed her soul with pity!All impulses of soul and senseHad thrilled my guileless Genevieve;70The 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,75Subdued and cherished long!She wept with pity and delight,She blushed with love and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.80Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eye,She fled to me and weptShe half enclosed me with her arms,85She pressed me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, looked up,And gazed upon my face.’Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly ’twas a bashful art,90That I might rather feel, than see,The swelling of her heart.I calmed her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,95My bright and beauteous Bride.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love,And feed his sacred flame.

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 I5Live o’er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay,Beside the ruined tower.

Oft in my waking dreams do I5

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;10And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!

The moonshine stealing o’er the scene,

Had blended with the lights of eve;10

And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armèd man,The statue of the armèd knight;She stood and listened to my lay,15Amid the lingering light.

She leaned against the armèd man,

The statue of the armèd knight;

She stood and listened to my lay,15

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene’er I singThe songs that make her grieve.20

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.20

I played a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.

I played 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 listened with a flitting blush,25With downcast eyes, and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.

She listened with a flitting blush,25

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 woreUpon his shield a burning brand;30And that for ten long years he wooedThe Lady of the Land.

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand;30

And that for ten long years he wooed

The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another’s love,35Interpreted my own.

I told her how he pined: and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone

With which I sang another’s love,35

Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face.40

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace;

And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face.40

But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he crossed the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,

And that he crossed the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,45And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade,—

That sometimes from the savage den,45

And sometimes from the darksome shade,

And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,—

There came and looked him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;50And that he knew it was a fiend,This miserable Knight!

There came and looked him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright;50

And that he knew it was a fiend,

This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,He leaped amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than death55The Lady of the Land;—

And that unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band,

And saved from outrage worse than death55

The Lady of the Land;—

And how she wept, and clasped his knees,And how she tended him in vain;And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;—60

And how she wept, and clasped his knees,

And how she tended him in vain;

And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain;—60

And that she nursed him in a cave;And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay;—

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 reached65That tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturbed her soul with pity!

His dying words—but when I reached65

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and senseHad thrilled my guileless Genevieve;70The music and the doleful tale,The rich and balmy eve;

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;70

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,75Subdued and cherished long!

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued,75

Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,She blushed with love and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.80

She wept with pity and delight,

She blushed with love and virgin shame;

And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.80

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eye,She fled to me and wept

Her bosom heaved—she stepped 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,85She pressed me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, looked up,And gazed upon my face.

She half enclosed me with her arms,85

She pressed me with a meek embrace;

And bending back her head, looked up,

And gazed upon my face.

’Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly ’twas a bashful art,90That I might rather feel, than see,The swelling of her heart.

’Twas partly love, and partly fear,

And partly ’twas a bashful art,90

That I might rather feel, than see,

The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,95My bright and beauteous Bride.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,

And told her love with virgin pride;

And so I won my Genevieve,95

My bright and beauteous Bride.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender light5Which heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless grace,Which waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;10Where 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,15But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!Lord Byron.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light5

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impaired the nameless grace,Which waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;10Where thoughts serenely sweet express,How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace,

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;10

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,15But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!Lord Byron.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,15

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron.

Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray,Thus winging low your airy way!And welcome, moth and drowsy fly,That to mine ear come humming by!And welcome, shadows dim and deep,5And stars that through the pale sky peep!O welcome all! to me ye say,My woodland Love is on her way.Upon the soft wind floats her hair;Her breath is in the dewy air;10Her steps are in the whispered sound,That steals along the stilly ground.O dawn of day, in rosy bower,What art thou to this witching hour?O noon of day, in sunshine bright,15What art thou to the fall of night?Joanna Baillie.

Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray,

Thus winging low your airy way!

And welcome, moth and drowsy fly,

That to mine ear come humming by!

And welcome, shadows dim and deep,5

And stars that through the pale sky peep!

O welcome all! to me ye say,

My woodland Love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair;Her breath is in the dewy air;10Her steps are in the whispered sound,That steals along the stilly ground.O dawn of day, in rosy bower,What art thou to this witching hour?O noon of day, in sunshine bright,15What art thou to the fall of night?Joanna Baillie.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair;

Her breath is in the dewy air;10

Her steps are in the whispered sound,

That steals along the stilly ground.

O dawn of day, in rosy bower,

What art thou to this witching hour?

O noon of day, in sunshine bright,15

What art thou to the fall of night?

Joanna Baillie.

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