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LoveLove
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 lay,
Amid the lingering 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 suited well
That 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 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,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that 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 leap`d amid a murderous band,
And saved 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 crazed his brain;
And that she nursed 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 faltering 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!
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush`d with love, and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved-she stepp`d aside,
As conscious of my look she stept -
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She press`d me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, look`d up,
And gazed upon my face.
[See She Half Enclosed: She half enclosed me with her arms.]
`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.
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