---

Скачать книгу

---

listen’d with a flitting Blush,

       With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;

       And she forgave me, that I gaz’d

       Too fondly on her Face!

      But when I told the cruel scorn

       Which craz’d this bold and lovely Knight,

       And that be cross’d 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 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 leapt amid a murd’rous Band,

       And sav’d 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 craz’d his Brain

      And that she nurs’d 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 reach’d

       That tenderest strain of all the Ditty,

       My falt’ring Voice and pausing Harp

       Disturb’d her Soul with Pity!

      All Impulses of Soul and Sense

       Had thrill’d 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 cherish’d long!

      She wept with pity and delight,

       She blush’d with love and maiden shame;

       And, like the murmur of a dream,

       I heard her breathe my name.

      Her Bosom heav’d — she stepp’d aside;

       As conscious of my Look, she stepp’d —

       Then suddenly with timorous eye

       She fled to me and wept.

      She half inclosed me with her arms,

       She press’d me with a meek embrace;

       And bending back her head look’d up,

       And gaz’d 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 calm’d her Tears; and she was calm,

       And told her love with virgin Pride.

       And so I won my Genevieve,

       My bright and beauteous Bride!

THE MAD MOTHER.

       Table of Contents

      Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,

       The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,

       Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,

       And she came far from over the main.

       She has a baby on her arm,

       Or else she were alone;

       And underneath the hay-stack warm,

       And on the greenwood stone,

       She talked and sung the woods among;

       And it was in the English tongue.

      ”Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,

       But nay, my heart is far too glad;

       And I am happy when I sing

       Full many a sad and doleful thing:

       Then, lovely baby, do not fear!

       I pray thee have no fear of me,

       But, safe as in a cradle, here

       My lovely baby! thou shalt be,

       To thee I know too much I owe;

       I cannot work thee any woe.”

      A fire was once within my brain;

       And in my head a dull, dull pain;

       And fiendish faces one, two, three,

       Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.

       But then there came a sight of joy;

       It came at once to do me good;

       I waked, and saw my little boy,

       My little boy of flesh and blood;

       Oh joy for me that sight to see!

       For he was here, and only he.

      Suck, little babe, oh suck again!

       It cools my blood; it cools my brain;

       Thy lips I feel them, baby! they

       Draw from my heart the pain away.

       Oh! press me with thy little hand;

       It loosens something at my chest;

       About that tight and deadly band

       I feel thy little fingers press’d.

       The breeze I see is in the tree;

       It comes to cool my babe and me.

      Oh! love me, love me, little boy!

       Thou art thy mother’s only joy;

       And do not dread the waves below,

       When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go;

       The high crag cannot work me harm,

       Nor leaping torrents when they howl;

       The babe I carry on my arm,

       He saves for me my precious soul;

       Then happy lie, for blest am I;

       Without me my sweet babe would die.

      Then do not fear, my boy! for thee

       Bold as a lion I will be;

       And I will always be thy guide,

       Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

       I’ll build an Indian bower; I know

       The leaves that make the softest bed:

       And if from me thou wilt not go.

       But still be true ‘till I am dead,

       My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,

       As merry as the birds in spring.

      Thy father cares not for my breast,

       ’Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:

       ’Tis all thine own! and if its hue

       Be changed, that was

---

Скачать книгу