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ALI thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, Areath but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
My own dear Genevieve !
She leant against the armed man,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen’d with a fitting blush,
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined; and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.
She listen’d with a flitting blush,
Too fondly on her face !
But when I told the cruel scorn
Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,
There came and look’d him in the face
This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did,
The Lady of the Land !
And how she wept, and claspt his knees ;
The scorn that crazed his brain.
And that she nursed him in a cave;
A dying man he lay.
His dying words—but when I reach'd
Disturb’d her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
Subdued and cherish'd long!
She wept with pity and delight,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heav'd she stept aside,
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,
The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
My bright and beauteous Bride.