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Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
[“ Thou hast asked me for a song,” Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Moore, " and I enclose you an experiment which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase.” Letter, May 10, 1814.]
S T COLERIDGE.
Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve !
When sinking low the sufferer wan
Canadia! boast no more the toils
To brighter Catherine Orkney.
That such a flower should ever burst
This flower, this Catherine Orkney.
We envy not your proud display
How spared you Catherine Orkney?
That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, To your reproach no more we tell : Canadia, you repaid us well
With rearing Catherine Orkney.
O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share : You've scarce a native maid so fair,
So good, as Catherine Orkney.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Born 1792-Died 1829.
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the river with the ocean ; The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single;
All things, by a law divine, In another's being mingle ;
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high Heaven,
And the waves clasp one another! No leaf or flower would be forgiven,
If it disdain'd to kiss its brother ; And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all those kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR,
P. B. SHELLEY.
I rise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright; I rise from dreams of thee, And a Spirit in my
feet Has led me--who knows how?
To thy chamber window sweet.
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark and silent stream, The Champak odours fall
Like sweet thoughts in a dream. The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart, As I must upon thine,
Beloved as thou art !
O lift me from the grass !
I die, I faint, I fail ;
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My heart beats loud and fast ; Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.
Though time has not wreathed
My temples with snow, Though age hath not breathed
A spell o'er my brow, Yet care's wither'd fingers
Press on me with pain ; The fleeting pulse lingers,
And lingers in vain.
The eyes which behold thee,
Their brightness is flown;
Enfeebled are grown :
By fortune estranged ;
For thou, too, art changed !
Yes, dark ills have clouded
The dawning in tears ;
By ripening years,
Draws nigh to its close ;-
I sigh for repose.