SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

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 armed man,

The statue of the armed 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 I She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd 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.

.1 told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he woo'd

The Lady of the Land.

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