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And answering wings-have sprung within my soul;
And-from the dumb,-waste places-of the dark
A voice has breathed-"She comes!" and ebb'd again;
While all my life-stood listening-for thy coming.
Oh! I have guessed-thy presence, out of sight,
And felt it—in the beating—of my heart!

When all-was dark-within-sweet thoughts would come,
As starry guests-come-golden-down the gloom,—
And thro' night's lattice-smile a rare delight;
While, (lifted—for the dear—and distant dawn,)
The face of all things-wore a happy light,—

Like those dream-smiles-which are the speech of sleep.
Thus-love-lived on,—and strengthen'd—with the days,—
Lit-by its own true light-within my heart,
Like a live diamond-burning-in the dark.
Then came there One,-a mirage-of the dawn.
She swam on toward me-in her sumptuous triumph,
Voluptuously upborne,-(like Aphrodite,)—
Upon a meadowy swell-of emerald sea.

A ripe,―serene-smile,-affluent graciousness,—
Hung,—(like a shifting radiance,)—on her motion,—
As bickering hues-upon the dove's neck-burn.
Her lip might flush a wrinkled life—in bloom!
Her eyes were an omnipotence-of love!
"Oh, yes!"—(I said,) “if such—your glories be,
Sure 't is a warm heart-feedeth ye—with light."
The silver throbbing-of her laughter-pulsed
The air-with music-rich-and resonant,-
As-from the deep heart-of a summer night
Some bird,-(in sudden sparklings-of fine sound,)—
Hurries its startled being-into song;

And, (from her sumptuous wealth—of golden hair-
Unto the delicate-pearly finger-tip,)

Fresh beauty-trembled from its thousand springs:
And,-(standing in the outer porch of life,)
All eager for the tempted mysteries,
With a rich heart-as full of fragrant love-
As May's musk-roses are—of morning's wine,
What marvel-if I questioned not her brow,
For the flame-signet-of the hand divine,

Or gauged it for the crown-of my large love?
I plunged—to clutch the pearl—of her babbling beauty,
Like some swift diver-in a shallow stream,

That smites his life out-on its heart of stone.
Ah! how my life did run—with fire-and tears!
With what a Titan-pulse-my love did beat!
But she,-(rose-lined-without-God pity her!)
Was cold-at heart-as snow-in last year's nest,-

And struck,—(like death,)—into my burning brain.
My tears-(th't rained out life) she froze-in falling,
And wore them,—(jewel-like,)—to deck her triumph!
But love-is never lost,-tho' hearts run waste;
Its tides-may gush—'mid swirling,—swathing deserts,
Where no green leaf—drinks up precious life;
Yet love doth-(evermore)—enrich itself;—
Its bitterest waters-run some-golden sands!
No star-goes down—but climbs—in other skies;
The rose-of sunset-folds its glory up
To burst again-from out the heart of dawn;
And love-is never lost,-tho' hearts run waste,
And sorrow-makes the chasten'd heart-a seer;
The deepest dark-reveals the starriest hope,—
And Faith-can trust her heaven-behind-the veil.

LOVE, OR HOW I WON MY GENEVIEVE. COLERIDGE.

All thoughts,-all passions,-all delights,
Whatever-stirs-this mortal frame,

All are-but ministers-of Love,
And feed-his sacred flame.

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.

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 leaned 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
The songs-th't make her grievè.
I played a soft--and doleful air,

I sang an old-and moving story,——
An old-rude song, th't suited well
That ruin-wild-and hoary.

She listened 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-th❜t (for ten long years)—he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her-how he pined:-and, ah!
The low, the deep,-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-th't I gazed
Too fondly-on her face.

But-when I told-the cruel scorn

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

But 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-th't he knew-it was a Fiend-
(This miserable Knight!)

And-th't, 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 clasp'd his knees,
And-how she tended him--in vain,--
And-ever-strove to expiate

The scorn-th't crazed his brain;

And-th't 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-th't kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng';
And gentle wishes-long subdued,
Subdued-and cherish'd-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 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 pressed me-with a meek embrace;
And,-(bending back her head,) looked up
And gazed-upon my face.

'Twas 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!

EDWARD GRAY. TENNYSON,

Sweet Emma Moreland-(of yonder town)— Met me-walking on yonder way,—

"And have you lost-your heart?"-(she said;) "And are you married yet,-Edward Gray?"

Sweet Emma Moreland-spoke to me:

Bitterly weeping-I turned away:

"Sweet Emma Moreland,-love-no more— Can touch the heart-of Edward Gray.

Ellen Adair-she loved me well,—

Against her father's-and mother's will:
To-day-I sat-(for an hour,) and wept-
By Ellen's grave,-on the windy hill.

Shy she was, and I thought her cold;
Thought her proud,-and fled-over the sea;
Fill'd I was with folly—and spite,—

When Ellen Adair-was dying—for me.
Cruel,-cruel-the words I said!

Cruelly-came they back-to-day: 'You're too slight—and fickle,'—(I said,),

'To trouble—the heart-of Edward Gray!

There I put my face-in the grass—
Whispered, 'Listen to my despair:
I repent me-of all—I did:

Speak a little,-Ellen Adair!'

Then I took a pencil,-and wrote
On the mossy stone,-(as I lay,)—
'Here-lies the body-of Ellen Adair;
And here-the heart-of Edward Gray!'

Love-may come,—and love-may go,

And fly,-(like a bird,) from tree-to tree:
But I will love-no more,—no more-
Till Ellen Adair-come back to me.

Bitterly-wept I-over the stone:

Bitterly weeping-I turned away:
There-lies the body-of Ellen Adair!
And there-the heart-of Edward-Gray!"

ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. BYRON.

Oh! that the desert-were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit-for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye elements!-(in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted)-Can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err

In deeming such—inhabit many a spot?
Though with them to converse-can rarely-be our lot.

There is a pleasure-in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture-on the lonely shore;
There is.. society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man— -the less, but nature—more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been-before,

To mingle with the UNIVERSE,—and feel-
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all-conceal.

Roll on, thou deep-and dark blue ocean,—ROLL!
Ten thousand fleets-sweep-over thee in vain;
Man-marks the earth-with ruin;-his control
Stops-with the shore;-upon the watery plain-
The wrecks are all thy deed,-nor doth-remain
A shadow-of man's ravage,-save his own,
When (for a moment,) like a drop of rain,

He sinks--into thy depths-with bubbling groan,
Without a grave,—unknelled,—uncoffined,—and unknown.

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