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Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place,
With feeble yet with hurried step, pursue
His agitated way; and when he reach'd
The open fields, and found himself alone
Beneath the starry canopy of heaven,
The sense of solitude, so dreadful late,
Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf;
And shedding o'er that unaccustom'd food
Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul
He breathed thanksgiving forth; then made his
bed

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
last

I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its leaps! Yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of Childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny blaze,

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,
O leave the rose upon the spray,
O leave the elder bloom, fair maids,
And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle bough,

This morn around my harp you twined,
Because it fashioned mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and wo,
A woful tale of love I sing;
Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs,
And trembles on the string.

But most, my own dear Genevieve,

It sighs and trembles most for thee !
O come and hear what cruel wrongs
Befell the dark Ladie.

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

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of love,
And feed his sacred flame.

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
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve.

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my harp,
Amid the lingering light.

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
Upon his shield a burning brand:
And how for ten long years he wooed
The Ladie of the land.

I told her how he pined :—and, ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone,

In which I told another's love,
Interpreted my own!

She listened 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,

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,
He leaps amid a lawless band,

And saved from outrage worse than death
The Ladie of the land;

And how she wept and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain,

And meekly strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain :

And how 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 thrill'd 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 cherished long :

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,
Heave and swell with inward sighs-

I could not choose but love to see
Her gentle bosom rise.

Her wet cheek glowed, she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stept,

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