'With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold Dragoon

That lists the tuck of drum.' 'I list no more the tuck of drum,

No more the trumpet hear;

But when the beetle sounds his hum

My comrades take the spear.

And O! though Brignall banks be fair And Greta woods be

gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare

Would reign my Queen of May!

'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die ;

The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met
Beneath the greenwood bough,-
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.'

Chorus

'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer-queen.'

Sir W. Scott

CCXIV

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like Thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep :

So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Lord Byron

CCXV

THE INDIAN SERENADE

I arise from dreams of Thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me-who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint
It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine

O beloved as thou art !

Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;
Oh! press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last.

P. B. Shelley

CCXVI

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent,—

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron

CCXVII

She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel-light.

W. Wordsworth

CCXVIII

She is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be;

Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.

O then I saw her eye was bright,

A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye:

Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.

H. Coleridge

CCXIX

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden ;
Thou needest not fear mine;

My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion

With which I worship thine.

P. B. Shelley

CCXX

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye!

-Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me !

W. Wordsworth

CCXXI

I travell❜d among unknown men
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.