It was a shady nook that I had found Deep in the greenwood. A delicious stream Ran softly by it on a bed of grass, And to the border leant a sloping bank Of moss as delicate as Tempe e'er Spread for the sleep of Io. Overhead The spreading larch was woven with the fir, And as the summer wind stole listlessly, And dallied with the tree tops, they would part And let in sprinklings of the sunny light, Studding the moss like silver; and again Returning to their places, there would come A murmur from the touched and stirring leaves, That like a far-off instrument, beguiled Your mood into the idleness of sleep. Here did I win thee, Viola! We came-- Thou knowest how carelessly--and never thought Love lived in such a wilderness; and thou-- I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip, And in the meshes of thy chesnut hair I loved to hide my fingers--that was all! And when I saw thy figure on the grass, And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thought A fairy would be pretty, painted so Upon a ground of green--but that was all! And when thou playfully wouldst bathe thy foot, And the clear water of the stream ran off And left the white skin polished, why, I thought It looked like ivory--but that was all! And when thou wouldst be serious, and I Was serious too, and thy mere fairy's hand Lay carelessly in mine, and just for thought I mused upon thy innocence and gaz'd Upon the pure transparence of thy brow-- I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously, And fell in love. Was _that_ all, Viola? THE EARL'S MINSTREL. I had a passion when I was a child For a most pleasant idleness. In June, When the thick masses of the leaves were stirr'd With a just audible murmur, and the streams Fainted in their cool places to a low Unnotic'd tinkle, and the reapers hung Their sickles in the trees and went to sleep, Then might you find me in an antique chair Cushion'd with cunning luxury, which stood In the old study corner, by a nook Crowded with volumes of the old romance; And there, the long and quiet summer day, Lay I with half clos'd eyelids, turning o'er Leaf after leaf, until the twilight blurr'd Their singular and time-stain'd characters. 'Twas a forgetful lore, and it is blent With dreams that in my fitful slumber came, And is remember'd faintly. But to-day With the strange waywardness of human thought, A story has come back to me which I Had long forgotten, and I tell it now Because it hath a savour that I find But seldom in the temper of the world.