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I told her of the Knight, that wore
Upon his Shield a burning Brand;
And that for ten long Years he wood

The Lady of the Land.

I told her, how he pind : 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


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 !

She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love and maiden shame ;
And, like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her Bosom heav'd-she stepp'd aside ; As conscious of my Look, she stepp'd— Then suddenly with timorous eye

She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms, She press’d me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head look'd up,

And gaz'd 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.

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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