Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame ; Bards of Passion and of Mirth Double-lived in regions new! CLXVIII LOVE 7. Keats A LL thoughts, all passions, all delights, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine stealing o'er the scene She lean'd against the arméd man, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, 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, 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 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 The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, And gentle wishes long subdued, She wept with pity and delight, I heard her breathe my name. • Her bosom heaved she stepp'd aside, As conscious of my look she stept – 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. 'T was partly love, and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, My bright and beauteous Bride. S. T. Coleridge CLXIX ALL FOR LOVE TALK not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? O Fame! - if I e'er took delight in thy praises, There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. Lord Byron CLXX THE OUTLAW BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And you may gather garlands there |