Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place, On heath and myrtle." S. T. COLERIDGE. TO THE RIVER OTTER. DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West! How many various-fated years have past, What blissful and what anguish'd hours, since I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy margin's willowy maze, And bedded sand that, vein'd with various dies, Gleam'd thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze! Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone Manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs, Ah! that once more I were a careless Child! A FRAGMENT. O LEAVE the lily on its stem, A cypress and a myrtle bough, This morn around my harp you twined, Its murmurs in the wind. And now a tale of love and wo, But most, my own dear Genevieve, It sighs and trembles most for thee ! Few sorrows hath she of her own, All thoughts, all passions, all delights, All are but ministers of love, O ever in my waking dreams I dwell upon that happy hour When midway on the mount I sat, Beside the ruin'd tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene She lean'd against the armed man, I played a sad and doleful air, I sung an old and moving story; An old rude song that fitted well The ruins wild and hoary. She listened 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 who wore I told her how he pined :—and, ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone, In which I told another's love, She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; But when I told the cruel scorn, That crazed this bold and lovely knight, And how he roamed the mountain woods, Nor rested day nor night: And how he crossed the woodman's path, Through briers and swampy mosses beat, How boughs, resounding, scourged his limbs, And low stubs gored his feet: How 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 looked him in the face An Angel beautiful and bright, And how he knew it was a fiend, This miserable knight ! And how, unknowing what he did, And saved from outrage worse than death And how she wept and clasped his knees, And meekly strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain : And how she nursed him in a cave, His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve, And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, She wept with pity and delight She blushed with love and maiden shame, And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. I saw her bosom heave and swell, I could not choose but love to see Her wet cheek glowed, she stept aside, |