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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!

She listened with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed,
Too fondly on her face.

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 nor night:

And how he crossed the woodman's path, 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 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 leapt amid a lawless band,

And saved from outrage worse than death, The Ladie of the Land.

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees, And how she tended him in vain,

And meekly strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain:

And how she nurs'd 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 faultering voice, and pausing harp,
Disturb'd 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 maiden shame, And, like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

I saw her bosom heave and swell,
Heave and swell with inward sighs,-

I could not chuse but love to see
Her gentle bosom rise.

Her wet cheek glowed she stept aside,
As concious of my look she stept,
Then suddenly with timorous eye
She flew 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!

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;

And thus I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride!

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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 sung the cruel scorn

That crazed this bold and lovely Knight,

And how he roamed the mountain woods,
Nor rested day nor night:

I promis'd thee a sister-tale

Of man's perfidious cruelty;

Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
Befell the dark Ladie.


STAR of the wide and pathless sea,

John Leyden.

Who lovest on mariners to shine,
Those votive garments wet, to thee
We hang, within thy holy shrine;
When o'er us flashed the surging brine,
Amid the warring waters tost,

We called no other name but thine,
And hoped when other hope was lost.
Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the vast and howling main,
When dark and lone is all the sky,
And mountain-waves o'er Ocean's plain,
Erect their stormy heads on high:
When virgins for their true loves sigh,
They raise their weeping eyes to thee;
The Star of Ocean heeds their cry,
And saves the foundering bark at sea.
Ave Maris Stella!

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 that 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!

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