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Following their dangerous fortunes ? If such love
EXTRACT FROM RODERICK, THE LAST OF
A CHRISTIAN woman spinning at her door
Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
TO THE RIVER OTTER.
DEAR native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West !
How many various-fated years have past,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy margin's willowy maze,
And bedded sand that, vein'd with various dies, Gleam'd thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze ! Visions of Childhood ! oft have ye beguiled Lone Manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs,
Ah ! that once more I were a careless Child !
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 twined, Because it fashioned mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
And now a tale of love and wo,
A woful tale of love I sing ;
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 sat,
Beside the ruin'd 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 lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight ;
Amid the lingering light.
I sung an old and moving story ;.
The ruins wild and hoary.
She listened with a fitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace, For well she knew I could not choose
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.
I told her how he pined :-and, ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone, In which I told another's love,
Interpreted my own!
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
Too fondly on her face.
But when I told the cruel scorn,
That crazed this bold and lovely knight, And how he roamed the mountain woods,
Nor rested day nor night:
Through briers and swampy mosses beat, How boughs, resounding, scourged his limbs,
And low stubs gored his feet : How 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 how he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable knight !
And how, unknowing what he did,
He leaps amid a lawless band,
The Ladie of the land ;
And how she wept and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain,