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And that, unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band,

And saved from outrage worse than death,
The Lady of the Land.

And how she wept, and clasped 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 reached

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

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,

An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long !

She wept with pity and delight—

She blushed with love, and virgin shame;

And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved; she stepped aside—

As conscious of my look she stept—

Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.

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A HEALTH. Ior

She half inclosed me with her arms;

She pressed me with a meek embrace;

And bending back her head, looked 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.

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.
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.

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Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,—
The idol of past years 1

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain;
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain :
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon—
Her health ! and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,

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HE stood breast high amid the corn
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened;—such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

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Round her eyes her tresses fell—
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;-
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come
Share my harvest and my home.

THOMAS HOOD.

JMy Love.

OT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening star;
And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;

God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot;

Life hath no dim and lowly spot
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,

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