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That sometimes from the savage Den,
And sometimes from the darksome Shade,
And sometimes starting up at once



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 how, 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 :

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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 namė.

Her bosom heav’d-she stepp'd aside ; As conscious of my Look, she stepp'dThen 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


'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!


Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,
Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the green-wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among ;
And it was in the English tongue.

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