Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo !
To him alone the praise is due.
Fire, Sisters! I from Ireland came !
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,
I triumphed o'er the setting sun!
And all the while the work was done,
On as I strode with my huge strides,
I flung back
my
head and I held my sides,
It was so rare a piece of fun
To see the sweltered cattle run
With uncouth gallop through the night,
Scared by the red and noisy light !
By the light of his own blazing cot
Was many a naked rebel shot:
The house-stream met the flame and hissed,
While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist,
On some of those old bed-rid nurses,
That deal in discontent and curses.
Both. Who bade
you
do't? Fire.
The same; the same! Letters four do form his name. He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! To him alone the praise is due.
All. He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! How shall we yield him honor due ?
Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food. I'll gnaw,
I'll
gnaw the multitude, Till the
cup
of
rage
o'erbrim :
They shall seize him and his brood-
Slau. They shall tear him limb from limb!
Fire. O thankless beldames and untrue !
And is this all that you can do
For him who did so much for you?
Ninety months he, by my troth!
Hath richly catered for you both;
And in an hour would you repay
An eight years' work ?--Away! away!
I alone am faithful! I
Cling to him everlastingly.
Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in ævo,
Perlegis hic lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta
Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus.
Omnia paulatim consumit longior ætas,
Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.
Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor:
Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
Voxque aliud sonat-
Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,
Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus
Mens horret, relegensque alium putat ista locutum.
PETRARCH.
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 lean’d against the armed man,
The statue of the armed 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!
And that, 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 that 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 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 '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.
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