CXC When we two parted Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Truly that hour foretold The dew of the morning They name thee before me, A shudder comes o'er me-- In secret we met : That thy heart could forget, After long years, How should I greet thee ?— With silence and tears. Lord Byron CXCI HAPPY INSENSIBILITY In a drear-nighted December The north cannot undo them In a drear-nighted December But with a sweet forgetting About the frozen time. Ah would 'twere so with many To know the change and feel it, J. Keats CXCII Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never! Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Borne down by the flying, There shall he be lying. Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the falsehearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never ! Eleu loro Never, O never! Sir W. Scott CXCIII LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! And the harvest's done. 'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, 'I met a lady in the meads, 'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. 'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song. 'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said 'I love thee true. 'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. 'And there she lulléd me asleep, And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. 'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried-'La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!' 'I saw their starved lips in the gloam And this is why I sojourn here Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake J. Keats CXCIV THE ROVER 'A weary lot is thine, fair maid, To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A doublet of the Lincoln green- My Love! No more of me you knew. 'The morn is merry June, I trow, He turn'd his charger as he spake |