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 ruined 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 leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened 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 played 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 listened 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 wooed
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 listened 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 crossed 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 looked 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 leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage, worse than death,
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;
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 reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity.
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled 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 cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin sharae;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved; she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stept;
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms; 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 art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous bride.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.
BALOW, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad;
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire;
But now I see, most cruell hee
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe!
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.
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