The huge hall-table's oaken face, And she was there, my hope, my joy,
Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace, My own dear Genevieve!
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord. She leaned against the arméil man,
Then was brought in the lusty brawn, The statue of the armed knight;
By old blue-coated serving-man ; She stood and listened to my lay,
Then the grim boar's head frowned on Ainid the lingering light.

Crested with bays and rosemary.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, Well can the green-garbed ranger tell My hope! my joy! my Genevieve ! How, when, and where the monster fell; She loves me best, whene'er I sing What dogs before his death he tore,

The songs that make her grieve. And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls, I played a soft and doleful air, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. I sang an old and moving story, There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by An oll rude song, that suited well Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; That ruin wild and hoary. Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high-tide, her savory goose.

She listened with a flitting blush,
Then came the merry maskers in, With downcast eyes and inodest grace;
And carols roared with blithesome din ; For well she knew, I could not choose
If unmelodious was the song,

But gaze upon her face.
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see I told her of the Knight that wore
Traces of ancient mystery ;

Upon his shield a burning brand;
White skirts supplied the masquerade, And that for ten long years he wooed
And smutted cheeks the visors made: The Lady of the Land.
But, 0, what maskers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light! I told her how he pined: and ah!
England was merry England, when The deep, the low, the pleading tone
Old Christmas brought his sports again. With which I sang another's love
'T was Christmas broached the mightiest Interpreted my own.

ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; She listened with a fitting blush, A Christmas gambol oft could cheer With downcast eyes, and modest grace; The poor man's heart through half the And she forgave me, that I gazed year.

Too fondly on her face.

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But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. And that he crossed the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day nor night; (1772 - 1834.]

That sometimes from the savage den, GENEVIEVE.

And sometimes from the darksome shade, All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

And sometimes starting up at once
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

In green and sunny glade,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

There came and looked him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright; Oft in my waking dreams do I

And that he knew it was a Fiend,
Live o'er again that happy hour,

This miserable Knight!
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruined tower.

And that unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murilerous band, The moonshine stealing o'er the scene And saved from outrage worse than death, Had blended with the lights of eve;

The Lady of the Land;



And how she wept, and clasped his knees; 1 On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Llane !
And how she tended him in vain; The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base
And ever strove to expiate

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful
The scorn that crazed his brain ;


Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines And that she nursed him in a cave, How silently! Around thee and above And how his madness went away, Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, When on the yellow forest-leaves

black, A dying man he lay;

An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it His dying words, but when I reached It is thine own calm home, thy crystal

As with a wedge! But when I look again, That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

shrine, My faltering voice and pausing harp

Thy habitation from eternity! Disturbed her soul with pity! o dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon All impulses of soul and sense

thee, Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, The music and the doleful tale,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced The rich and balmy eve;

in prayer

I worshipped the Invisible alone. And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, An undistinguishable throng,

So sweet we know not we are listening And gentle wishes long subdued,

to it, Subdued and cherished long. Thou, the meanwhile, wert blending with

my thought, She wept with pity and delight,

Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy, She blushed with love, and virgin shame; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, And like the murmur of a dream, Into the mighty vision passing, there, I heard her breathe my name. As in her natural form, swelled vast to

Heaven! Her bosom heaved, she stepped aside,

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise As conscious of my look she stept, Thou owest! not alone these swelling Then suddenly, with timorous eye,

tears, She fled to me and wept.

Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, She half enclosed me with her arms,

awake! She pressed me with a meek embrace;

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my And, bending back her head, looked up,

hynin. And gazed upon my face.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the

vale! 'T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’t was a bashful art

0, struggling with the darkness all the

night, That I might rather feel than see

And visited all night by troops of stars, The swelling of her heart.

Or when they climb the sky or when they

sink, I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride;

Companion of the morning star at dawn,

Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn And so I won my Genevieve,

Co-herald, — wake, 0, wake, and utter My bright and beauteous Bride.

praise ! Who sankthy sunless pillars deepin earth?

Who filled thy countenance with rosy HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE


Who made thee parent of perpetual

streams? Hast thou a charm to stay the morning And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely star

glad! In his steep course ? So long he seems Who called you forth from night and

utter death,

to pause

your joy,

From dark and icycaverns called you forth, Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! Down those precipitous, black, jagged thou rocks,

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low Forever shattered and the same forever? In adoration, upward froin thy base Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused Your strength, your speed, your fury, and

with tears,

Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? To rise before me – Rise, O, ever rise, And who commanded (and the silence Rise like a cloud of incense from the came),

Earth! Here let the billows stiffen and have rest? Thou kingly Spirit throned among the Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the moun hills, tain's brow

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Adown enormous ravines slope amain,

Heaven, Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, voice,

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, And stopped at once amid their maddest Earth, with her thousand voices, praises plunge!

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade



the sun

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with 'T is the middle of night by the castle living flowers

clock, Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your And the owls have awakened the crowing feet?

God! let the torrents, like a shout of Tu-whit! tu-whoo!

And hark, again! the crowing cock,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! How drowsily it crew.
God! sing, ye meadow - streams, with
gladsome voice!

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul. Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; like sounds!

From her kennel beneath the rock And they too have a voice, yon piles of She maketh answer to the clock, snow,

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the And in their perilous fall shall thunder, hour; God!

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal Sixteen short howls, not over-loud; frost!

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!

Is the night chilly and dark ? Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain. The night is chilly, but not dark. storin!

The thin gray cloud is spread on high, Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the It covers but not hides the sky. clouds!

The moon is behind, and at the full; Ye signs and wonders of the elements, And yet she looks both small and dull. Utter forth God, and fill the hills with The night is chill, the cloud is gray; praise !

'T is a month before the month of May, Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky. And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un The lovely lady, Christabel, heard,

Whom her father loves so well, Shoots downward, glittering through the What makes her in the wood so late, pure serene,

A furlong from the castle gate ? Into the depth of clouds that veil thy She had dreams all yesternight breast,

Of her own betrothéd knight;

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