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I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.



MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

Sitt'st behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorched and mildewed bough,

Leafless 'mid the blooms of May !

Him who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watched with angry gaze,
Fearful saw his pleading look,

Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the youth,

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;
But no sound like simple truth,

But no true love in his eye.

Loathing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence !
Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is woe: With a musing melancholy

Inly armed, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of self-dominion,

Firm thy steps, O Melancholy! The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the skylark and forlorn,

While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimmed the tender corn,

Or the bean-field's odorous blooms.

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring,

And embathe in heavenly light.


MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray, Soiled beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray !

When the partridge o'er the sheaf

Whirred along the yellow vale, Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf !

Love the dalliance of the gale.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!

Heave and flutter to his sighs, While the flatterer, on his wing,

Wooed and whispered thee to rise.

Gayly from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted highSoon on this unsheltered walk

Flung to fade, to rot and die.



Through weeds and thorns, and matted under

wood I force my way; now climb, and now descend O’er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen, Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil I know not, ask not wbither! A new joy, Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust, And gladsome as the first-born of the spring, Beckons me on, or follows from behind, Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled, I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak, Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake Soar up, and form a melancholy vault High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse; 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 ;
But would be something that he knows not of,
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 bither, the low stumps


gore His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird Easily caught, ensnare him, 0 ye Nymphs, Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at



The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs !
You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed-
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp
Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.
Chase, chase him, 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


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