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CXC

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame :
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met :
In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee ?—

With silence and tears.

Lord Byron

CXCI

HAPPY INSENSIBILITY

In a drear-nighted December
Too happy, happy Tree
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:

The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them,
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December
Too happy, happy Brook
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;

But with a sweet forgetting
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting

About the frozen time.

Ah would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passéd joy?

To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbéd sense to steal it-
Was never said in rhyme.

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
Under the willow.
Eleu loro

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day
Cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake

Never, O never!

Eleu loro

Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying;
Eleu loro

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the falsehearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted:
Shame and dishonour sit

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,
Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful- a fairy's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

'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
With horrid warning gapéd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake
And no birds sing.'

J. Keats

CXCIV

THE ROVER

'A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green-
No more of me you knew

My Love!

No more of me you knew.

'The morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.'

He turn'd his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,

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