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I told her of the Knight, that wore
The Lady of the Land.
I told her, how he pind : and, ah!
Interpreted my own.
She listen'd with a flitting Blush,
Too fondly on her Face !
But when I told the cruel scorn
Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage Den, And sometimes from the darksome Shade, And sometimes starting up at once
green and sunny Glade,
There came, and look'd him in the face,
This miserable Knight!
And that, unknowing what he did,
The Lady of the Land;
And how she wept and clasp'd his knees
The Scorn, that craz'd his Brain
And that she nurs'd him in a Cave;
A dying Man he lay;
His dying words--but when I reach'd
Disturb'd her Soul with Pity!
All Impulses of Soul and Sense
The rich and balmy Eve;'
And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope,
Subdued and cherish'd long !
She wept with pity and delight,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her Bosom heav'd-she stepp'd aside ; As conscious of my Look, she stepp'd— Then suddenly with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms, She press’d me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head look'd up,
And gaz'd upon my face.
'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,
The Swelling of her Heart.