The poem
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 leant against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd 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 know, 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 faultering 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-shame ; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped-- The suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed 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.
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.