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Lord Byron.

WHEN all around grew drear and dark,

And reason half withheld her rayAnd hope but shed a dying spark

Which more misled my lonely way;

In that deep midnight of the mind,

And that internal strife of heart, When dreading to be deemed too kind,

The weak despair-the cold depart;

When fortune changed—and love fled far,

And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last.

Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!

That watched me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night,

For ever shining sweetly nigh.

And when the cloud upon us came,

Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,

And dashed the darkness all away,

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And teach it what to brave or brook There's more in one soft word of thine,

Than in the world's defied rebuke,

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,

That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument.

The winds might rend—the skies might pour,

But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour • To shed thy weeping leaves o’er me.

But thou and thine shall know no blight,

Whatever fate on me may fall; For heaven in sunshine will requite

The kind—and thee the most of all.

Then let the ties of baffled love

Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel—but will not move ;

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.

And these, when all was lost beside,

Were found and still are fixed in theeAnd bearing still a breast so tried,

Earth is no desert-ev'n to me.


T. Moore. .

I saw from the beach when the morning was shining,

A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,

The bark was still there but the waters were gone.

Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danc'd on at morning ebbs from us,

And leaves us at eve, on the blank shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night; Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,

Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh who would not welcome that moment's returning,

When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame, And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning,

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!


S, T. Coleridge,

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 twin'd, Because it fashioned mournfully,

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and woe,

A woeful 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 sate,

Beside the ruined 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 leand 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 listen’d with a fitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace, For well she knew I could not chuse

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. . ..

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