« AnteriorContinuar »
I told her how he pined: and ah,
In which I told another's love,
She linked with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace?
And she forgave me that I gazed*,
But when I told the cruel scorn,
And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
Through briars and swampy mosses beat, How boughs, rebounding, scourged his limbs,
And low stubs gored his feet:
How sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes starting up at once
There came and looked him in the face
An Angel beautiful and bright, And how he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight I
And bow, unknowing what Be did,
And saved from outrage worse than death,
And how she wept and clasp'd his knees,
And meekly strove to expiate
And how she nurs'd him In a cave,
When, on the yellow forest leaves,
His dying words—but when I reached
My fanltering voice, and pausing harp,
All impulses of soul and sense
The music and the doleful tale,
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
She wept with pity and delight,—
She blushed with love and maiden shame,
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I saw her bosom heave and swell,
I could not chuse but love to see
Her wet cheek glowed she stept aside,
Then suddenly with timorous eye
She half inclosed me with her arms—
And bending back her head, looked up,
'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 calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And thus I won my Genevieve,
And now once more a tale of woe,
A woeful tale of love I sing, For thee, my Genevieve I it sighs
And trembles on the string.
When last I sung the cruel scorn
And how he roamed the mountain woods,
I promis'd thee a sister-tale
Of man's perfidious cruelty;
Befell the dark Ladle.
PORTUGUEZE HYMN TO THE VIRGIN MARY.
STAR of the wide and pathless sea,
Those votive garments wet, to thee
When o'er us flashed the surging brine,
Amid the warring waters tost,
And hoped when other hope was lost.
Star of the vast and howling main,
And mountain-waves o'er Ocean's plain,
They raise their weeping eyes to thee;
And saves the foundering bark at sea.
Star of the dark and stormy sea,
When wrecking tempests round us rave, Thy gentle virgin form we see
Bright rising o'er the hoary wave.
The howling storms thai seem to crave Their victims, sink in music sweet;
The surging-seas recede to pave The path beneath thy glistening feet. Ave Maris Stella!
Star of the desert waters wild,
Who pitying hears the seaman's cry, The God of mercy, as a child,
On that chaste bosom loves to lie;
While soft the chorus of the sky Their hymns of tender mercy sing,
And angel voices name on high, The mother of the heavenly king, Ave Maris Stella.'