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ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that ofttimes hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep.
In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep?

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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 armèd man,
The statue of the armèd 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 played 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 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 leaped 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 reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled 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 blushed with love and virgin shame;
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stept aside;
As conscious of my look, she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And, bending back her head, looked 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!

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