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 I5
Live o’er again that happy hour,
When midway on the Mount I lay
Beside the Ruined Tower.
The Moonshine stealing o’er the scene
Had blended with the Lights of Eve;10
And she was there, my Hope, my Joy,
My own dear Genevieve!
She leaned against the Armed Man,
The Statue of the Armed Knight:
She stood and listened to my Harp15
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.20
I played 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 listened with a flitting Blush,25
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;30
And that for ten long Years he wooed
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,35
Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting Blush,
With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her Face!40
But when I told the cruel scorn
Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain woods
Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage Den,45
And sometimes from the darksome Shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny Glade,
There came, and looked him in the face,
An Angel beautiful and bright;50
And that he knew, it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!
And how, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a murd’rous Band,
And saved from Outrage worse than Death55
The Lady of the Land;
And how she wept and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain—
And ever strove to expiate
The Scorn, that crazed his Brain:60
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 reached65
That tenderest strain of all the Ditty,
My falt’ring Voice and pausing Harp
Disturbed her Soul with Pity!
All Impulses of Soul and Sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve,70
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,75
Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love and maiden shame;
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.80
Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside;
As conscious of my Look, she stepped—
Then suddenly with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms,85
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head looked up,
And gazed upon my face.
’Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful Art90
That I might rather feel than see
The Swelling of her Heart.
I calmed her fears; and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin Pride.
And so I won my Genevieve,95
My bright and beauteous Bride!