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 And how she wept, and claspt 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 reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faultering 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!