« ForrigeFortsæt »
All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
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,
Amid the ling’ring Light.
Few Sorrows hath she of her own,
The Songs, that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful Air,
The Ruin wild and hoary.
She listend with a fitting Blush,
I told her of the Knight, that wore
The Lady of the Land.
I told her, how he pin'd: and, ah !
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,
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 clasp'd his knees
The Scorn, that craz'd his Brain
And that she nurs'd 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!