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Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house, by Stamford-town.
And he looked at her and said,
That she wore when she was wed.”
Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.
She was a phantom of Delight.
She was a Phantom of delight
I saw her upon nearer view,
And now I see with eye serene
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;
My own dear Genevieve !
The statue of the armed knight;
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-
The ruin wild and hoary.
With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
Upon his shield a burning brand,
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined; and, ah!
The low, the deep, 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
Which crazed this bold and lovely knight, And that he crossed the mountain woods,
Nor rested day nor night;
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
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 how, 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
A dying man he lay;
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
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 maiden shame ; And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
As conscious of my look, she stepped-
She fled to me and wept.
She pressed me with a meek embrace,
And gazed upon my face.