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Alas! to mend the breaches wide
He made for these poor ninnies, They all must work, whate'er betide, Both days and months, and pay beside (Sad news for Avarice and for Pride)
A sight of golden guincas.
us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should bave allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, ibat novelty itself ceases to appear now; and it is possible that now even a simple story, wbolly uuinspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those wbo bave remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.
S. T. C.
Dec. 21, 1799
But here once more to view did
pop The man that kept his senses. And now he cried— Stop, neighbours! stop! The Ox is mad! I would not swop, No, not a school-boy's farthing top,
For all the parish fences.
O leave the lily on its stem;
spray; o leave the elder-bloom, fair maids!
And listen to my lay.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
grace; For well she knew, I could not chuse
But gaze upon her face.
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK
LADIE. The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; aud as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A hoavior objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, wben novelties explode around
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand; And how for ten long years he wood
The Ladie of the Land :
'T was partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 't was 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 told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride.
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed this bold and lovely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day or night. And how he cross'd the woodmau's paths,
Through briars and swampy mosses beat; How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs,
And low stubs gored his feet;
And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade;
An Angel beautiful and bright;
This miserable Knight!
He leapt amid a lawless band,
The Ladie of the Land !
And now once more a tale of woe,
A woeful tale of love I sing: For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,
And trembles on the string. When last I sang the cruel scorn
That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day or night;
Of man's perfidious cruelty:
wrong Befel the Dark Ladie.
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vainAnd meekly strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain :
LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT.
At midnight by the stream I roved,
And how 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 reach'd
That tend'rest strain of all the ditty, My falı'ring voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilld my guiltless 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 cherish'd long!
The moon was high, the moonlight gleam
And the shadow of a star
But the rock shone brighter far,
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love and maiden-shame And, like the murmurs of a dream,
I hear her breathe my name.
Heave and swell with inward sighs—
Her gentle bosom rise.
I saw a cloud of palest hue,
Onward to the moon it pass'd;
Till it reach'd the moon at last:
And with such joy I find my Lewti:
Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind.
The little cloud--it floats away,
Away it goes; away so soon?
from the moon! How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more, To joyless regions of the sky
And now 't is whiter than before!
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
up, and form a melancholy vault
I saw a vapour in the sky,
Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse; Thin, and white, and very high ;
Here too the love-lorn man who, sick in soul,
And of this busy human heart aweary,
Worships the spirit of unconscious life
In tree or wild-flower.-Gentle Lunatic!
If so he might not wholly cease to be,
He would far rather not be that, he is ;
in winds or waters, or among the rocks!
But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion here !
No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves
Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore
His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn
Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird
Easily caught, enspare him, O ye Nymphs, And startle from their reedy bed.
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades! O beauteous Birds! methinks
And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at morn
You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, To sleep by day and wake all night.
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, I know the place where Lewti lies,
Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.
Chase, chase bim, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes!
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock
His little Godship, making him perforce
Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.
This is my hour of triumph! I can now I then might view her bosom white
With my own fancies play the merry fool, Heaving lovely to my sight,
And laugh away worse folly, being free. As these two swans together heave
Here will I seat myself, beside this old, On the gently swelling wave.
Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine
Clothes as with net-work: here will I couch my limbs, Oh! that she saw me in a dream,
Close by this river, in this silent shade,
As safe and sacred from the step of man
As an invisible world-unheard, unscen,
And list'ning only to the pebbly brook
That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound; Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me, To-morrow Lewti may be kind.
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, 1795.
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek; THE PICTURE, OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION. The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence
Ne'er play'd the wanton-never half disclosed THROUGI Weeds and thorns, and malted underwood Eye-poisons for some love-distemper'd youth, 1 force my way; now climb, and now descend Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove
Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,
Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun
pressure still remains! O blessed couch!
Not to thee, O wild and desert Stream! belongs this tale : Gloomy and dark art thou—the crowded firs Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed, Making thee doleful as a cavern-well : Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!
This be my chosen haunt-emancipate From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs, How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, Isle of the river, whose disparted waves Dart off asunder with an angry sound, How soon to re-unite!
And see! they meet, Each in the other lost and found : and see
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
You loved the daughter of Don Manrique ?