That 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 that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable Knight!
And that, 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 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 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 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
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.
LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad;
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire ;
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile!
And when thou wakest sweitly smile;
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
I canna chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline :
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new ;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For women's banning's wonderous sair.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
Bairne, sin thy cruel father's gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;
My babe and I'll together live;
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They'll use us then they care not how.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
A TRAVELLER, through a dusty road,
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows;
And Age was pleased, in heats of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.
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