GENEVIEVE. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Oft in my waking dreams do I 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 armed man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, She listen'd with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined and ah! She listen'd with a flitting blush, And she forgave me, that I gazed But when I told the cruel scorn That craz'd that 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 In green and sunny glade, There came and looked him in the face And that, unknowing what he did, 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, His dying words-but when I reach'd 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 blushed with love, and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved-she stept aside, 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, I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, My bright and beauteous Bride. |