The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She leant 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.

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,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not chuse
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 craz'd 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 sav'd from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and claspt 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 faultering 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 heav'd-she stept aside, As conscious of my look she steptThen suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed 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.

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER INNOCENCE.

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray, Soil'd beneath the common tread, Far from thy protecting spray!

When the partridge o'er the sheaf Whirr'd 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 whisper'd thee to rise.
Gaily from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted high-
Soon on this unshelter'd walk
Flung to fade, to rot and die.

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

AT THE THEATRE.

MAIDEN, that with sullen brow
Sitst behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watch'd 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 arm'd, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of Self-dominion,
Firm thy steps, oh Melancholy!
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
While she moults the firstling plumes,
That had skimm'd 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.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breath'd singer's uptrill'd strain Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment.

Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing

sneer

My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,

Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

O give me, from this heartless scene releas'd, To hear our old musician, blind and gray, (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kist)

His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,
By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
The while I dance amid the tedded hay
With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in
light.

Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Of the calm glossy lake, oh let me hide
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees
Around whose roots the fisher's boat is tied,
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at
ease,

And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,
Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

But oh, dear Anne! when midnight-wind

careers,

And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm

crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead,
Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The Things of Nature utter; birds or trees
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass, mid the heath-plant
waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-
ROOM.

NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy
throng,
Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
In intricacies of laborious song.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY,

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day.

HYMN

BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY.

Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources on the foot of Mount-Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its flowers of loveliest blue.

HAST thou a charm to stay the Morning-
Star
In his steep course? So long he seems to
pause

On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pincs,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent Mount! I gaz'd upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranc'd
in prayer

I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,

Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfus'd,
Into the mighty vision passing—there
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to
heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret extacy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!

Green Vales and icy Cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the
Vale!

O struggling with the Darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the Morning Star at dawn,
Thyself Earth's ROSY STAR, and of the dawn
Co-herald! wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?
Who fill'd thy Countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,

Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort This dark, freeze-coated, hoarse, teethchattering Month Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gaz'd upon thee With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower!

THE HARTZ-FOREST.

stones

The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leapt frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on
In low and languid mood: for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the life within:
Fair cyphers of vague import, where the eye
Traces no spot, in which the heart may read
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turned westward, shaping in the steady
clouds

Thy sands and high white cliffs! My native
Land!

Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,

Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all

the view

From sovran Brocken,woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is every where! the God who
framed

Mankind to be one mighty Family,
Himself our Father, and the world our Home.

Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, Ev'n now the keen North-East is on its way. Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth Nipp'd by Consumption'mid untimely charms? Or to Bristowa's Bard, the wonderous boy! An Amaranth, which Earth scarce seem'd to

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broadleav'd Myrtle,

And watch the clouds, that late were rich
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
Slow sad'ning round, and mark the star of eve
with light,
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world
so hush'd!

The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of Silence. And that simplest Lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement.
hark!

How by the desultory breeze caress'd,
It pours such sweet upbraidings, as must
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover.

needs