 Lines. After the Manor of the Olden Time. By George Pope Morris. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. O love! The mischief thou hast done. Thou God of pleasure, and of pain. None can escape thee. Yes, there's one. While others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears. Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, reclines him in the lily-bells, reposes in the rainbow hues, and sparkles in the crystal wells, or hies him to the coral caves where cenums sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harps tune, with faes and oriads lingers he, gleams in the ring of the watery moon, or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, O everywhere we meet thee, love, and everywhere he welcomes finds from cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, with purple wings and lighted torch, with tripping feet and silvery tongue, and bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, the village maiden leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his spell, for lady-fair and cavalier, like sunbursts on the mountain snow, love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, ye nymphs arcadian, why, since love is general as the air, why does he not too lily-fly, and soften that obdurate fair? Score-nerves her proud, disdainful heart, she scoffs at love, and all his heart. O boy-god, love, an archer thou, thy utmost skill I feign would test, one arrow, a Matlalia now, and let thy target be her breast, her heart bind in thy captive train, or give me back my own again. None can escape thee, yes there's one, all others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning do's, reclines him in the lily-bells, reposes in the rainbow hues, and sparkles in the crystal wells, or hies him to the coral caves where sea-nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, with phase and oriads lingers he, gleams in the ring of the watery moon, or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, oh, everywhere we meet thee love, and everywhere he welcomes finds, from cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, with purple wings and lighted torch, with tripping feet in silvery tongue, and bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, the village maiden leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his spell, for Lady Fair and Cavalier, like sunbursts on the morning snow, loves genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, ye nymphs, Arcadian, why, since love is general as the air, why does not, too, Lelya fly, and soften that obdurate fare? Score nerves her proud, disdainful heart, she scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy, God, love and archer thou, thy utmost skill I feigned would test, when arrow aim at Lelya now, and let thy target to be her breast, her heart bind in thy captive train, or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines After the Manor of the Olden Time by George Pope Morris, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. Oh, love, the mischief thou hast done, thou God of pleasure and of pain, none can escape thee, yes, there's one, all others find the effort vain, thou cause of all my smiles and tears, thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love baits him in the morning doos, reclines him in the lily-bows, reposes in the rainbow hues, and sparkles in the crystal wells, or hies him to the coral caves, where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, with faze and oreads lingers he, gleams in the ring of the watery moon, or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, oh, everywhere we meet the love, and everywhere he welcomes vines, from cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, with purple wings and lighted torch, with tripping feet and silvery tongue, and bow and darts behind him slung. He tingles in the shepherd's bell, the village maiden leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his spell, for lady fair and cavalier, like sunbursts on the mountain snow. Love's genio warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs, Arcadian? Why, since love is general as the air, why does he not T'Lyla fly, and soften that abdurate fair? Scorn nerves her proud, distainful heart. She scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy, God, love, an archer thou, thy utmost skill I feign would test, one arrow aim at Lyla now, and let thy target be her breast, her heart bind in thy captive train, or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines after the manner of the olden time by George Pope Morris, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate novelist. Oh, love, the mischief thou hast done, thou God of pleasure and of pain, none can escape thee. Yes, there's one, all others find the effort vain. Thou calls of all my smiles and tears, thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, reclines him in the lily bells, reposes in the rainbow hues, and sparkles in the crystal wells, or hies him to the coral caves, where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-hop's tune, with Faes and Oriads lingers he, gleams in the ring of the watery moon, or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove. Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love, and everywhere he welcomes finds, from cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, with purple wings and lighted torch, with tripping feet and silvery tongue, and bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, the village maiden leans to hear, by lattice high he weaves his spell, for Lady Fair and Cavalier, like sunbursts on the mountain snow, love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs arcadian, why, since love is general as the air? Why does he not to lila fly, and soften that obdurate fare? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, she scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy, God, love, unarcher thou, thy utmost skill I feign would test, one arrow aim at lila now, and let thy target be her breast, her heart bind in thy captive train, or give me back my own again. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Lines, after the manner of the olden time, by George Pope Morris, read for librafox.org by phone. Oh, love, the mischief thou has done, thou God of pleasure and of pain, none can escape thee, yes, there's one, all others find the effort vain. Thou calls of all my smiles and tears, thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love baits him in the morning dews, reclines him in the lily bells, reposes in the rainbow hues, and sparkles in the crystal wells, or hies him to the coral caves where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, with phase and oriots lingers he, gleams in the ring of the watery moon, or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, oh, everywhere we meet thee, love, and everywhere he welcomes finds, from cottage door to palace porch, love enters free as spicy winds, with purple wings and lighted torch, with tripping feet and silvery tongue, and bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, the village maiden leans to hear, by latches high he weaves his spell, for Lady Fair and Cavalier, like sunbursts on the mountain snow, love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs are cadmium, why, since love is general as the air, why does he not to lily have fly, and soften that obdurate fair? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, she scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy God, love, an archer thou, thy utmost skill, I feign would test. One arrow aim at Lillia now, and let thy target be her breast. Her heart bind in thy captive train, or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines After the Manor of the Olden Time by George Pope Morris, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Scott Cheltenham, England Oh, love, the mischief thou hast done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain, none can escape thee. Yes, there's one. All others find the effort vain, Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where sea-nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, With Faes and Oriads lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea, Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch, Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slown. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell The village maiden leans to hear, By lattice high he weaves his spell, For Lady Fair and Cavalier, Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Loves genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs are cadian, Why, since love is general as the air, Why does he not to Lalia fly, And soften that obdurate fare? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy God love, an archer thou, Thy utmost skill I fain would test, One arrow aim at Lalia now, And let thy target be her breast, Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There's one. All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dues, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, With faze and oriids linger sea, Gleams at the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove. Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love! And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch, Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tankles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear, By lattice high he weaves his spell, For lady fair and cavalier, Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs arcadian why, Since love is general as the air, Why does he not to layly afly, And soften the obdurate fare? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy, God, love and archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would test, One arrow aim and layly at now, And let thy target be her breast, Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Lines, After the Manor of the Olden Time, By George Pope Morris. Read for LibriVox.org by Josh Kibbey. Oh, love, the mischief thou hast done, Thou, God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee. Yes, there's one, All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blightened bloom of all my hears. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues and sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where scenums sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harps tune, With Faes and Oriads lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch, Love enters free as spicy winds With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and the silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear, By lattice high he weaves his spell For Lady Fair and Cavalier. Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, ye nymphs, Arcadian, why? Since love is general as the air, Why does he not to lily afly And soften that obdurate fair? Score, nerfs her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy, God love, and arts are thou, Thy utmost skill I feign when test, One arrow aimeth legally anow, And let thy target be her breast, Her heart bind and thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines After the Manor of the Olden Time By George Pope Morris Read for LibriVox.org By Larry Wilson O love, the mischief thou hast done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee. Yes, there's one. All others find the effort vain, Thou cause all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dues, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves Where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harps tune, With Faes and Oriads lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, O, everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell The village maiden leans to hear, By lattice high he weaves his spell, For Lady Fair and Cavalier. Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, ye nymphs, Arcadian, why? Since love is gentle as the air, Why does he not too lately afligh? And soften that obdurate fair. Scorn nurse her proud, disdainful here, She scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy, God love, an archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would test, One arrow aim at Lelya now, And let thy target be her breast, Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Lines After the Manor of the Olden Time By George Pope Morris. Read for LibriVox.org By Michelle Frye, Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Oh, love, the mischief thou has done, Thou, God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee. Yes, there is one. All others find the effort vain, Thou, cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou, blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind harps tune, With faze and oar reads lingers he, Leaming in the ring of the watery moon Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch, Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him's lung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear, By lattice high he weaves his spell For Lady Fair and Cavalier. Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs, Arcadian? Why, since love is general as the air, Why does he not too lily a-fly, And soften the abdued fair? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love, and all his art. Oh, boy, God, love, and archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would test. One arrow aimeth Lillia now, And let thy target be her breast, Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh, love, the mischief thou hast done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain. None can escape thee. Yes, there's one. All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Her highs him to the coral caves, Where sea-nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, With phase and oriids lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove. Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love! And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch, Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear, By lattice high he weaves his bell, For Lady Fair and Cavalier, Like sun burst on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, ye nymphs, Arcadian, why, Since love is general as the air? Why does he not to lila fly, And soften the objure at fair? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy God love, an archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would test. One arrow aim it lila now, And let thy target be her breast. Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Thou God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee. Yes, there's one. All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dudes, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where sea nibs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, With phase and oriads lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, Oh, everywhere we meet thee love, And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tingles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his spell For Lady Fair and Cavalier. Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs, Arcadian? Why, since love is general in the air, Why does he not to laylia fly And soften the abduret fare? Score nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love and all his art. O boy God love and archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would test, One arrow aim at laylia now, And let thy target be her breast. Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. And to poem this recording is in the public domain. Oh love, the mischief thou hast done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee. Yes, there's one, All others find the effort vain, Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily-bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where seen him sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, With faze and oriads lingers he, Gleams and thring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove. Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch, Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his spell, For Lady Fair and Cavalier. Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, he nymphs arcadian, Why, since love is general as the air, Why does he not to Lelia fly, And soften the obdurate fare? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love in all his art. Oh, boy, God, love, an archer thou, Thy utmost skill I fain would test. One arrow aim at Lelia now, And let thy target be her breast. Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines, After the Manor of the Olden Time, by George Pope Morris. Read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. Oh, love, the mischief thou hast done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee. Yes, there's one. All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily-bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where cenums sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harps tune, With faze and oriids lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, Oh, everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tingles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his spell, For lady fair and cavalier, Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, ye nim Sarcadian, why, Since love is general as the air, Why does he not till the lia fly, And soften that obdurate fare? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love and all his art. Oh, boy, God, love, an archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would test. One arrow ain met lia now, And let thy target be her breast. Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines. After the manner of the olden time. By George Pope Morris, read for LibriVox.org, By The Voice Before the Void. 2019 February. And Chile, Santiago. The Voice Before the Void.net. Oh, love, the mischief thou has done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain. None can escape ye. Yes, there's one. All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the libelles, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And sparkles in the crystal wells, Or hides him to the coral caves, Where seed nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, With fae's and oread's lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, Not everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tingles in the shepherd's bell, The village maiden leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his spell, For Lady Fair and Cavalier. Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs are cadian? Why? Since love is general as the air, Why does he not too lely a-fly, And soften the obdurate fair? Scorn, nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love in all his art. Boy, God, love, an archer thou, That utmost skill I feigned with test. One arrow, aim at Lelya now, And let thy target be her breast, Her heart, bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lines after the manner of the olden time, By George Polk Morris, read for LibriVox.org by William Jones. O love, the mischief thou hast done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee? Yes, there's one, All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues and sparkles In the crystal wells, Or hides him to the coral caves Where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp-stune, With faze and oreads lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, and the grove, O everywhere we meet thee, love, And everywhere he welcomes fine, From the cottage door to palace porch. Love enters free as spicy winds, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet and silvery tongue, And bow and darts behind him slung. He tinkles. In the shepherd's bell the village maiden Leans to hear. By lattice high he weaves his bell For Lady Fair and Cavalier, Like sunbursts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why, ye nymphs arcadian, Why, since love is general as the air, Why does he not too laily afly And soften that obvurate fare? Scorn nerves her proud, disdainful heart, She scoffs at love and all his art. O boy God love, an archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would test, One arrow, aim it laily now, And let thy target be her breast, Her heart bind in thy captive train, Or give me back my own again, In the poem this recording is in the public domain. Lines, after the manner of the olden time, By George Pope Morris, read for Librivox.org by Wyn Stewart. O love, the mischief thou has done, Thou God of pleasure and of pain, None can escape thee, yes there's one, All others find the effort vain. Thou cause of all my smiles and tears, Thou blight and bloom of all my years. Love bathes him in the morning dews, Reclines him in the lily bells, Reposes in the rainbow hues, And spackles in the crystal wells, Or hies him to the coral caves, Where sea nymphs sport beneath the waves. Love vibrates in the wind-harp's tune, With faeces and oriads lingers he, Gleams in the ring of the watery moon, Or treads the pebbles of the sea. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, O everywhere we meet thee, love. And everywhere he welcomes finds, From cottage door to palace porch, To palace porch, Love enters free of spicy wines, With purple wings and lighted torch, With tripping feet in silvery tongue, And bow and dart behind him slung. He tinkles in the shaper's bell, The village maiden leans to hear, By lettuce high he weaves his spell, For lady fair and cavalier. Like sun-butts on the mountain snow, Love's genial warmth melts high and low. Then why ye nymphs are cadian, why, Since love is general as the air? Why does he not too leela fly, And soften that obdurate fair? Scorn nerves her proud, Distainful heart, she scuffs at love in all his art. O boy-god love and archer thou, Thy utmost skill I feign would taste, When arrow aim it leela now, And let thy target be her breast. Her heart binding thy captive train, Or give me back my own again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.