CCX ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold Oft of one wide expanse had I been told -Then felt I like some watcher of the skies He stared at the Pacific-and all his men J. Keats CCXI LOVE All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine stealing o'er the scene She lean'd against the arméd man, ! Few sorrows hath she of her own, The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and ah ! She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knigh That sometimes from the savage den, In green and sunny glade,— There came and look'd him in the face And that unknowing what he did, And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; The scorn that crazed his brain ;- His dying words-but when I reach'd All impulses of soul and sense The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 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 heaved-she stepp'd aside, She half inclosed me with her arms, 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm My bright and beauteous Bride. CCXII ALL FOR LOVE O talk not to me of a name great in story; 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? Oh fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises, There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. Lord Byron CCXIII THE OUTLAW O Brignall banks are wild and fair, A Maiden on the castle-wall 'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, And if thou canst that riddle read, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, I'd rather rove with Edmund there 'I read you, by your bugle-horn I read you for a ranger sworn His blast is heard at merry morn, Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay; I would I were with Edmund there |