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
Fanning away the dandelions down;

Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
Playing in all her innocence of thought!

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look;
O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her breathing list;
And as she leaves me, may she often turn
Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburn.

COLERIDGE.

LOVE.

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 arnièd man,
The statue of the armèd knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows had she of her own,
My hope my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

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 wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and, ah
The low, the deep, 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

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 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;