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 ruin'd 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 lean'd against the armèd man,
The statue of the armèd knight;
She stood and listen'd 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 listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace; For well she knew, 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 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 gazed

Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

Which crazed 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
In 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 leaped amid a murderous band,

And saved 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 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 faltering 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 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;
As conscious of my look, she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed 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 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!

THE Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves,

On the green turf, a dial-to divide

The silent hours; and who to that report
Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt,
Throughout a long and lonely summer's day,
His round of pastoral duties, is not left
With less intelligence for moral things
Of gravest import. Early he perceives,
Within himself, a measure and a rule,
Which to the sun of truth he can apply,

That shines for him, and shines for all mankind.
Experience daily fixing his regards

On Nature's wants, he knows how few they are,
And where they lie, how answer'd and appeas'd:
This knowledge ample recompense affords

For manifold privations; he refers

His notions to this standard; on this rock

Rests his desires; and hence, in after life,
Soul-strengthening patience and sublime content.
Imagination-not permitted here

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind,
On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares,

And trivial ostentation-is left free

And puissant to range the solemn walks
Of time and nature, girded by a zone
That, while it binds, invigorates and supports.
Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side.
Of his poor hut, or on the mountain-top,
Or in the cultur'd field, a Man so bred
(Take from him what you will upon the score
Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes
For noble purposes of mind: his heart
Beats to th' heroic song of ancient days;
His eye distinguishes, his soul creates.

A CLOUD PICTURE.

So was he lifted gently from the ground,

And with their freight homeward the shepherds mov'd

Through the dull mist, I following-when a step,

A single step, that freed me from the skirts

Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view

Glory beyond all glory ever seen

By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul!
Th' appearance, instantaneously disclos'd,