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Following their dangerous fortunes ? If such love
Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread,
As with a Pilgrim's reverential thoughts,
The groves of Penshurst. Sydney here was born,
Sydney, than whom no gentler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with loyal love.
Upon his natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourish'd, when his perishable part
Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak,
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sydney's fame
Endureth in his own immortal works.

EXTRACT FROM RODERICK, THE LAST OF

THE GOTHS.

A CHRISTIAN woman spinning at her door
Beheld him, and with sudden pity touch'd,
She laid her spindle by, and running in
Took bread, and following after, call'd him back,
And placing in his passive hards the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake
Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd
Like idiocy he heard her, and stood still,
Staring a while ; then bursting into tears
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart,
Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts.
So through the streets, and through the northern

gate,

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 fitting 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,

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