She lean'd against the armèd man,
The statue of the armèd 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,

I

The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air,
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,
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.

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

She listen'd 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 that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That 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 look'd him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright ;
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 ;

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;

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 stepp'd 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.

"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 so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.

SAMUEL TAYLOR Coleridge

I

I HELD HER HAND

HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss,
Her hand that trembled and withdrew ;

She bent her head before my kiss,

My heart was sure that hers was true.

Now I have told her I must part,

She shakes my hand, she bids adieu,
Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart!
Hers never was the heart for you.

AF

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

ROSE AYLMER 1

H! what avails the sceptred race!
Ah! what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

EXEGI MONUMENTUM

PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak
Four not exempt from pride some future day.

Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek,
Over my open volume you will say,

"This man loved me!" then rise and trip away.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

1 Rose Aylmer was the youngest daughter of Henry, fourth Baron Aylmer. She went to India and died there in 1800Landor being then twenty-five years old. These verses are surely among the sweetest laments ever written.

THE

THE MAID I LOVE

'HE maid I love ne'er thought of me
Amid the scenes of gaiety;

But when her heart or mine sank low,
Ah, then it was no longer so.

From the slant palm she raised her head,
And kiss'd the cheek whence youth had fled.
Angels! some future day for this,

Give her as sweet and pure a kiss.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

TWENTY YEARS HENCE

TWENT

Yet

WENTY years hence my eyes may grow,
If not quite dim, yet rather so,

yours from others they shall know
Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence, tho' it may hap
That I be call'd to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunder-clap
Was never heard.

There breathe but o'er my arch of grass

A not too-sadly sigh'd Alas,

And I shall catch, ere you can pass,

That winged word.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR