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And that, unknowing what he did,
The Lady of the Land.
And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
The scorn that crazed his brain ;--
And that she nursed him in a cave;
A dying man he lay :
His dying words—but when I reached
Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindlc hope,
Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight-
I heard her breathe my name.
She fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms;
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.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers ;
So fill her, she appears
The idol of past years !
Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain ;
A sound must long remain :
So very much endears,
Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
The seeming paragon-
Some more of such a frame,
EDWARD C. PINKKEY
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
On her cheek an autumn flush
Round her eyes her tresses fell-
And her hat, with shady brim,
Sure, I said, heaven did not mean
Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow
Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;
That doth not in her sunshine share.
She doeth little kindnesses
Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemed in her eyes.
She hath no scorn of common things;
And though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.
Blessing she is: God made her so;
And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow; Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.
She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman; one in whom
The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will,
And yet doth ever flow aright,