And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
Nor rested, day or night;
And how he cross'd the woodman's paths,
Through briars and swampy mosses beat;
How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs,
And low stubs gored his feet;
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 look'd him in the face,
An Angel beautiful and bright,
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight;
And how, unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land;
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain,
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain;
And how she nursed him in a cave;
And that his madness went away
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay ;
His dying words;-But when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity.
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd 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 cherish'd long.
She wept, with pity and delight;
She blush'd, with love and virgin shame;
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved,-she stepp'd aside,
As conscious of my look she stepp'd ;
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me, and wept.
She half-enclosed me in her arms;
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And, bending back her head, look'd 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.
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.
I ask'd my Fair, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay,—
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece: Lalagè, Neæra, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,
Arethusa, or Lucrece.
Ah! replied my gentle Fair :
Beloved! what are names but air?
Choose thou whatever suits the line!
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalagè, or Doris,—
Only, only call me Thine!
TO A YOUNG ASS.
Its mother being tethered near it.
Poor little Foal of an oppressed race!
I love the languid patience of thy face;
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd,
That never thou dost sport along the glade;
And, most unlike the nature of things young,
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate :
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
That patient Merit of the Unworthy takes?
Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot,
Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen, While sweet around her waves the tempting green.
Poor Ass! thy master should have learn'd to show
Pity, best taught by fellowship of woe :
For much I fear me that he lives like thee,
Half famish'd in a land of luxury.
How askingly its footsteps hither bend!
It seems to say-And have I then one friend?
Innocent Foal! thou poor despised Forlorn!
I hail thee Brother, spite of the fool's scorn;
And fain would take thee with me, in the dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side.
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast.
LOVE AND HOPE AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION.
O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule
And sun thee in the light of happy faces,
Love, Hope, and Patience,—these must be thy Graces;
And in thine own heart let them first keep school!
For, as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe and there sustains it, so
Do these upbear the little world below
Of Education,-Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks I see them group'd in seemly show,
The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that, touching as adown they flow
Distinctly, blend like snow emboss'd in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.
But love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive;
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies:
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. Yet haply there will come a weary day
When, overtask'd at length,
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loath, And, both supporting, does the work of both.
YOUTH AND AGE.
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee :
Both were mine; Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young? Ah, woeful when!
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands
How lightly then it flash'd along!
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide,
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in it together.
Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree :
O the joys that came down shower-like
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah, woeful ere!
Which tells me Youth's no longer here.
O youth! for years so many and sweet
'Tis known that thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit
(It can not be) that thou art gone.
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd,
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