He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze As o'er some stranger glancing; Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser's prancing-- The castle-arch, whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken. SIR W. SCOTT 197. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. Earl March look'd on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her-- The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her. She's at the window many an hour His coming to discover: And he look'd up to Ellen's bower And she look'd on her lover-- But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling-- And am I then forgot--forgot? It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. T. CAMPBELL 198. Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:-- No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest; Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever,--or else swoon to death. J. KEATS. 199. THE TERROR OF DEATH. When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the fairy power Of unreflecting love--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. J. KEATS. 200. DESIDERIA. Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind-- I turn'd to share the transport--Oh, with whom But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind-- But how could I forget thee? Through what power Even for the least division of an hour Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,