'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 fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride. S. T. COLERIDGE. 169. ALL FOR LOVE. O talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is hoary-- What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? O Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. LORD BYRON. 170. THE OUTLAW. O Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer-queen. And as I rode by Dalton-Hall Beneath the turrets high, A Maiden on the castle-wall Was singing merrily: "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen." "If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May." Yet sung she "Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen. "I read you by your bugle-horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a ranger sworn To keep the King's greenwood." "A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night." Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay; I would I were with Edmund there To reign his Queen of May!