And if thou still art true,
I will be constant too,
And will wed none but you,
Robin Adair.

LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL.

SONG.

I ne'er could any luster see

In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,

But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouched by art?
I will own the color true,

When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it, grateful, press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so when I see

That heaving bosom sigh for me.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

LOVE.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stir this mortal frame,

LOVE.

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 lie
Beside the ruined 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 arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight;
She stood and listened 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 made her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving storyAn old rude song, that 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.

75

I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand,
And how for ten long years he wooed
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 listened 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 lonely knight, And how he crossed 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 looked him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright;

And how he knew it was a fiend,

This miserable knight!

And how, 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 how 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 maiden 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 stepped;
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She flew 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 'twas 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 TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

A RED, RED ROSE.

O my love's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;