LOVE.

All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights, Whatever stirs this mortal Frame,

All are but Ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,

When midway on the Mount I lay
Beside the Ruin'd Tower.

The Moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the Lights of Eve; And she was there, my Hope, my Joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the Armed Man,
The Statue of the Armed Knight:
She stood and listen'd to my Harp
Amid the ling'ring Light.

Few Sorrows hath she of her own,
My Hope, my Joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The Songs, that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful Air,
I sang an old and moving Story-
An old rude Song that fitted well

The Ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting Blush,

With downcast Eyes and modest Grace; For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her Face.

I told her of the Knight, that wore
Upon his Shield a burning Brand;
And that for ten long Years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.

I told her, how he pin'd: and, ah!
The low, the deep, the pleading tone,
With which I sang another's Love,
Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting Blush,

With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;

And she forgave me, that I gaz'd

Too fondly on her Face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

Which craz'd this bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain woods

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,
An Angel beautiful and bright;

And that he knew, it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a murd'rous Band,

And sav'd from Outrage worse than Death

The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees

And how she tended him in vain

And ever strove to expiate

The Scorn, that craz'd his Brain

And that she nurs'd him in a Cave;

And how his Madness went away

When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying Man he lay ;

His dying words-but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the Ditty,
My falt'ring Voice and pausing Harp
Disturb'd her Soul with Pity!

All Impulses of Soul and Sense
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve,
The Music, and the doleful Tale,
The rich and balmy Eve;

And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope, An undistinguishable Throng!

And gentle Wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherish'd long!