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"To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends—
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay!

"Farewell! farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

"He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."

The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone. And now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,

And is of sense forlorn;

A sadder and a wiser man

He rose the morrow morn.

And to teach by his own example, love, and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.


ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

Are all 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 moonlight 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 leant against the armèd man,

The statue of the armèd 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 storyAn 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 woo'd
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 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 enclosed me in 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 own, my beauteous bride.



LL nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair— The bees are stirring-birds are on the wingAnd Winter, slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.





Work without hope draws nectar in a sie
And hope without an object cannot live.

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