And answering wings-have sprung within my soul; And-from the dumb,-waste places-of the dark A voice has breathed-"She comes!" and ebb'd again; While all my life-stood listening-for thy coming. Oh! I have guessed-thy presence, out of sight, And felt it—in the beating—of my heart!
When all-was dark-within-sweet thoughts would come, As starry guests-come-golden-down the gloom,— And thro' night's lattice-smile a rare delight; While, (lifted—for the dear—and distant dawn,) The face of all things-wore a happy light,—
Like those dream-smiles-which are the speech of sleep. Thus-love-lived on,—and strengthen'd—with the days,— Lit-by its own true light-within my heart, Like a live diamond-burning-in the dark. Then came there One,-a mirage-of the dawn. She swam on toward me-in her sumptuous triumph, Voluptuously upborne,-(like Aphrodite,)— Upon a meadowy swell-of emerald sea.
A ripe,―serene-smile,-affluent graciousness,— Hung,—(like a shifting radiance,)—on her motion,— As bickering hues-upon the dove's neck-burn. Her lip might flush a wrinkled life—in bloom! Her eyes were an omnipotence-of love! "Oh, yes!"—(I said,) “if such—your glories be, Sure 't is a warm heart-feedeth ye—with light." The silver throbbing-of her laughter-pulsed The air-with music-rich-and resonant,- As-from the deep heart-of a summer night Some bird,-(in sudden sparklings-of fine sound,)— Hurries its startled being-into song;
And, (from her sumptuous wealth—of golden hair- Unto the delicate-pearly finger-tip,)
Fresh beauty-trembled from its thousand springs: And,-(standing in the outer porch of life,) All eager for the tempted mysteries, With a rich heart-as full of fragrant love- As May's musk-roses are—of morning's wine, What marvel-if I questioned not her brow, For the flame-signet-of the hand divine,
Or gauged it for the crown-of my large love? I plunged—to clutch the pearl—of her babbling beauty, Like some swift diver-in a shallow stream,
That smites his life out-on its heart of stone. Ah! how my life did run—with fire-and tears! With what a Titan-pulse-my love did beat! But she,-(rose-lined-without-God pity her!) Was cold-at heart-as snow-in last year's nest,-
And struck,—(like death,)—into my burning brain. My tears-(th't rained out life) she froze-in falling, And wore them,—(jewel-like,)—to deck her triumph! But love-is never lost,-tho' hearts run waste; Its tides-may gush—'mid swirling,—swathing deserts, Where no green leaf—drinks up precious life; Yet love doth-(evermore)—enrich itself;— Its bitterest waters-run some-golden sands! No star-goes down—but climbs—in other skies; The rose-of sunset-folds its glory up To burst again-from out the heart of dawn; And love-is never lost,-tho' hearts run waste, And sorrow-makes the chasten'd heart-a seer; The deepest dark-reveals the starriest hope,— And Faith-can trust her heaven-behind-the veil.
LOVE, OR HOW I WON MY GENEVIEVE. COLERIDGE.
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 leaned 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-th't make her grievè. I played a soft--and doleful air,
I sang an old-and moving story,—— An old-rude song, th't suited well That ruin-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-that wore Upon his shield-a burning brand; And-th❜t (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-th't 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;
But 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-th't he knew-it was a Fiend- (This miserable Knight!)
And-th't, 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-th't crazed his brain;
And-th't 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-th't 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-'t was a bashful art, That I might rather feel-than see- The swelling-of her heart.
I calmed her fears; and she was calm, And told her love—(with virgin pride;) And so I won-my Genevieve!
My bright-and beauteous bride!
EDWARD GRAY. TENNYSON,
Sweet Emma Moreland-(of yonder town)— Met me-walking on yonder way,—
"And have you lost-your heart?"-(she said;) "And are you married yet,-Edward Gray?"
Sweet Emma Moreland-spoke to me:
Bitterly weeping-I turned away:
"Sweet Emma Moreland,-love-no more— Can touch the heart-of Edward Gray.
Ellen Adair-she loved me well,—
Against her father's-and mother's will: To-day-I sat-(for an hour,) and wept- By Ellen's grave,-on the windy hill.
Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud,-and fled-over the sea; Fill'd I was with folly—and spite,—
When Ellen Adair-was dying—for me. Cruel,-cruel-the words I said!
Cruelly-came they back-to-day: 'You're too slight—and fickle,'—(I said,),
'To trouble—the heart-of Edward Gray!
There I put my face-in the grass— Whispered, 'Listen to my despair: I repent me-of all—I did:
Speak a little,-Ellen Adair!'
Then I took a pencil,-and wrote On the mossy stone,-(as I lay,)— 'Here-lies the body-of Ellen Adair; And here-the heart-of Edward Gray!'
Love-may come,—and love-may go,
And fly,-(like a bird,) from tree-to tree: But I will love-no more,—no more- Till Ellen Adair-come back to me.
Bitterly-wept I-over the stone:
Bitterly weeping-I turned away: There-lies the body-of Ellen Adair! And there-the heart-of Edward-Gray!"
ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. BYRON.
Oh! that the desert-were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit-for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye elements!-(in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted)-Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such—inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse-can rarely-be our lot.
There is a pleasure-in the pathless woods; There is a rapture-on the lonely shore; There is.. society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man— -the less, but nature—more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been-before,
To mingle with the UNIVERSE,—and feel- What I can ne'er express, yet can not all-conceal.
Roll on, thou deep-and dark blue ocean,—ROLL! Ten thousand fleets-sweep-over thee in vain; Man-marks the earth-with ruin;-his control Stops-with the shore;-upon the watery plain- The wrecks are all thy deed,-nor doth-remain A shadow-of man's ravage,-save his own, When (for a moment,) like a drop of rain,
He sinks--into thy depths-with bubbling groan, Without a grave,—unknelled,—uncoffined,—and unknown.
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