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LOVE.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are[errata 1] 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 leant against the armed man.
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Errata
