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 Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep? 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 armèd man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, I played a soft and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and, ah! She listen'd with a flitting blush, But when I told the cruel scorn Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, That sometimes from the savage den, 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; His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, And gentle wishes long subdued, She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; Her bosom heaved-she stept aside; 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, I calm'd her fears; and she was calm, And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride! |