But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,―― There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend. This miserable Knight! And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;―― And how she wept, and clasped 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 reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled 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 cherished long! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love, and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved――she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stept―― Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. ’Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride. S. T. COLERIDGE. The original poem, by Coleridge, is here printed in full, with a very clever parody, which will be better appreciated after comparison with the original. The little Volume of _Miscellaneous Poems_ from which the parody is taken, is now very scarce, although only published as recently as 1880. The author has gone to Australia, taking with him all the unsold copies of his book. THE POWER OF SCIENCE. “All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame,” Are but the legacies of apes, With interest on the same, How oft in studious hours do I Recall those moments, gone too soon, When midway in the hall I stood, Beside the Dichobune. Through the Museum windows played The light on fossil, cast, and chart, And she was there, my Gwendoline, The mammal of my heart.