To this sole image in her mind: And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate! And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, Still picturing that look askance With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father's view
As far as such a look could be In eyes so innocent and blue!
And when the trance was o'er, the maid Paused awhile, and inly prayed: Then falling at the Baron's feet, "By my mother's soul do I entreat That thou this woman send away!' She said: and more she could not say: For what she knew she could not tell, O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, Sir Leoline? Thy only child Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, So fair, so innocent, so mild; The same, for whom thy lady died! O, by the pangs of her dear mother Think thou no evil of thy child! For her, and thee, and for no other, She prayed the moment ere she died: Prayed that the babe for whom she died, Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, Her child and thine?
Within the Baron's heart and brain If thoughts, like these, had any share, They only swelled his rage and pain, And did but work confusion there,
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonour'd thus in his old age; Dishonour'd by his only child, And all his hospitality
To the insulted daughter of his friend By more than woman's jealousy Brought thus to a disgraceful end- He rolled his eye with stern regard Upon the gentle minstrel bard, And said in tones abrupt, austere- 'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here? I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed; And turning from his own sweet maid, The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!
THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND
A little child, a limber elf, Singing, dancing, to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks, That always finds, and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight As fills a father's eyes with light; And pleasures flow in so thick and fast Upon his heart, that he at last Must needs express his love's excess With words of unmeant bitterness. Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other; To mutter and mock a broken charm, To dally with wrong that does no harm. Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.
DEJECTION: AN ODE
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my raster dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast,
And oh that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear-
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green; And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars: Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen; Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west; I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth-
And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
0 pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud- Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud— We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light.
There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel But to be still and patient, all I can; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man---- This was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
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