-Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wonderous And the parle of voices thunderous; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, trancéd thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim:- Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new!
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 I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve !
She lean'd against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd 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 choose 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 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 he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;
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, 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 faltering 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 throng, 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 heaved-she stepp'd 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 calm'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.
O 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 hoaryWhat care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround
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
O Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer-queen. And as I rode by Dalton-Hall Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle-wall Was singing merrily:
'O Brignall Banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen.'
'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may,
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May.' Yet sung she Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen.
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