ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep? All are but ministers of Love, Oft in my waking dreams do I 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 armèd man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, I played a soft and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and, ah! She listen'd with a flitting blush, Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, That sometimes from the savage den, There came, and look'd 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 clasp'd 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; A dying man he lay; His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, And gentle wishes long subdued, She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; Her bosom heaved-she stept aside; She half inclosed me with her arms, 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, I calm'd her fears; and she was calm, My bright and beauteous Bride! |