The sportive toil, which short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had train'd her pace,-
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;
Ev'n the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread :

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,—
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!

A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,

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Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,

Whose glossy black to shame might bring

The plumage of the raven's wing;

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And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care;
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.

Her kindness and her worth to spy,

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You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;

Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,

Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd

The guileless movements of her breast;

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Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was growing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unreveal'd,

With maiden pride the maid conceal'd,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;-

O! need I tell that passion's name?

LOVE.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

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70

SCOTT.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruin'd tower.

5

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene

Had blended with the lights of eve;

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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;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own.
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

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I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,

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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 that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.

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I told her how he pined: and, ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,

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And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band,

And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land ;-

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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;—

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And that she nursed 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 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 stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.

She half-inclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, look'd up,
And gazed upon my face.

"T was partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 't was a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,

The swelling of her heart.

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.

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90

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COLERIDGE.

THE ANCIENT MARINER. PART VII.

THIS Hermit good lives in that wood

Which slopes down to the sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with marineres

That come from a far countree.

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He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve―
He hath a cushion plump:

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk, “Why, this is strange, I trow!

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