Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/680

 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 reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering 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 virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepp'd aside, As conscious of my look she stept— Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look'd up, And gazed upon my face.