Part 194

And how she wept and clasped 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 cherished 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 stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped - Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed 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 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.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

NESTED On The Sussex Downs

"Lured," little one? Nay, you've but heard Love o'er your wild downs roaming; Not lured, my bird, my light, swift bird, But homing - homing.

"Caught," does she feel? Nay, no net stirred To catch the heart fore-fated; Not caught, my bird, my bright, wild bird, But mated - mated.

And "caged," she fears? Nay, never that word Of where your brown head rested; Not caged, my bird, my shy, sweet bird, But nested - nested!

Habberton Lulham [18 -

THE LETTERS

Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloomed the stagnant air; I peered athwart the chancel pane, And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet, A band of pain across my brow; "Cold altar, heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow."

I turned and hummed a bitter song That mocked the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; I saw, with half-unconscious eye, She wore the colors I approved.

She took the little ivory chest, With half a sigh she turned the key, Then raised her head with lips compressed, And gave my letters back to me; And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please. As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I looked on these.

She told me all her friends had said; I raged against the public liar. She talked as if her love were dead; But in my words were seeds of fire. "No more of love, your sex is known; I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone; The woman cannot be believed.

"Through slander, meanest spawn of hell, - And woman's slander is the worst, - And you, whom once I loved so well, Through you my life will be accursed." I spoke with heart and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms - Like torrents from a mountain source We rushed into each other's arms.

We parted; sweetly gleamed the stars, And sweet the vapor-braided blue; Low breezes fanned the belfry bars, As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appeared to smile, So fresh they rose in shadowed swells; "Dark porch," I said, "and silent aisle, There comes a sound of marriage bells."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

PROTHALAMION

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; When I (whom sullen care, Through discontent of my long fruitless stay In Prince's Court, and expectation vain Of idle hopes, which still do fly away, Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain), Walked forth to ease my pain Along the shore of silver streaming Thames; Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, Was painted all with variable flowers, And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, Fit to deck maidens' bowers, And crown their paramours Against the bridal day, which is not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

There, in a meadow, by the river's side, A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, As each had been a bride: And each one had a little wicker basket, Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously, In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, And, with fine fingers, cropped full feateously The tender stalks on high. Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some; the violet, pallid blue, The little daisy, that at evening closes, The virgin lily, and the primrose true, With store of vermeil roses, To deck their bridegroom's posies Against the bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue Come softly swimming down along the Lee; Two fairer birds I yet did never see; The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew, Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear; Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he, Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near; So purely white they were, That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare To wet their silken feathers, lest they might Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, And mar their beauties bright, That shone as heaven's light, Against their bridal day, which was not long: Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.