O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been

Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 't was, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

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He went like one that hath been stunned,

And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.

LOVE

[Publ. 1798]

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
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 ruined tower.

feast,

My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd knight; She stood and listened 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

I

The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
sang an old and moving story -
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened 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 deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,

Interpreted my own.

ΤΟ

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