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I told her how he pined: and ah,
She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
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
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,
His dying words—but when I reached
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,
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,
I could not chuse but love to see
Her wet cheek glowed she stept aside,
She half inclosed me with her arms-
'Twas partly love and partly fear,
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And thus I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride!
And now once more a tale of woe,
For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs
When last I sung the cruel scorn
That crazed this bold and lovely Knight,
And how he roamed the mountain woods,
I promis'd thee a sister-tale
Of man's perfidious cruelty;
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
PORTUGUEZE HYMN TO THE VIRGIN MARY.
STAR of the wide and pathless sea,
Who lovest on mariners to shine,
We called no other name but thine,
Star of the vast and howling main,
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!