And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name forever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow

Should visit still, should still deplore; But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undecked remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie,

Thy air that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye;

Thy spirits frolicsome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismayed,

Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade?

Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye;

Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu!

C. A..BARTY.

Genevieve

NewYork: Derby & Jackson.

J. ROGERS.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

1772-1834.

LOVE.

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 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 make her grieve.

I played 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 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 that 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 lovely Knight, And that 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 that he knew it was a Fiend,

This miserable Knight!