SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 1772-1834. LOVE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, All are but ministers of Love, Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, She leaned against the arméd man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, She listened with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and ah! She listened with a flitting blush, 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, There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, And that, unknowing what he did, 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; His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense The music and the doleful tale, And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 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 stepped aside, |