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!