Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. Were I in such a place, I sure should pray That nought less sweet might call my thoughts away, Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown Than the light music of her nimble toes How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, COLERIDGE. LOVE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, All are but ministers of Love, Oft in my waking dreams do I 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 arnièd man, Few sorrows had she of her own, An old rude song that suited well She listen'd with a flitting blush, For well she knew, I could not choose I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and, ah She listen'd with a flitting blush, And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face But when I told the cruel scorn Which crazed this 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 starting up at once 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, The scorn that crazed his brain, And that she nursed him in a cave, His dying words-but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense The rich and balmy eve; |