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Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts like these had any share,
They only swelld his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quiver'd, his eyes were wild,
Dishonour'd thus in his old age;
Dishonour'd by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wrong'd daughter* of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end-
He rolld his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere-
Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence !” The bard obey'd ;
And, turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine !




A LITTLE child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,

* To th' insulted daughter-1816.

Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true !)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.





[To the Editor of the Morning Post. Sir,

The following Poem is the Introduction to a somewhat longer one, for which I shall solicit insertion on your next open day. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie, for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that “the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity” (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the Author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love; and five years ago, I own, I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas ! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story wholly unspiced with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of Revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.



Morning Post, December 21, 1799.—The substance of this poem (with the omission of the four opening and three concluding stanzas) appeared in the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800), under the title of Love.—ED.

O LEAVE the lily on its stem ;

O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids !

And listen to my lay.

A cypress and a myrtle bough
This morn around my harp you twined,
Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and woe,
A woeful tale of love I sing ;
Hark, gentle maidens ! hark, it sighs

And trembles on the string.

But most, my own dear Genevieve,
It sighs and trembles most for thee !
O come and hear the cruel wrongs,

Befell the Dark Ladie!

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.

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 ruin'd 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 listen'd to my lay,t

Amid the lingering light.

I play'd 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 listen’d with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
For well she knew I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

* O ever in my waking dreams

I dwell upon that happy hour When midway on the Mount I sate-1799. + To my harp-il.

A sad and doleful air-ib. § That fitted well-ib.

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