TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.

Oh! thou who, in my early youth,

When fancy wore the garb of truth,

Wert wont to win my infant feet

To some retired, deep fabled seat,

Where, by the brooklet's secret tide,

The midnight ghost was known to glide;

Or lay me in some lonely glade,

In native Sherwood's forest shade,

Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold,

Was wont his sylvan courts to hold;

And there, as musing deep I lay,

Would steal my little soul away,

And all my pictures represent,

Of siege and solemn tournament;

Or bear me to the magic scene,

Where, clad in greaves and gabardine,

The warrior knight of chivalry

Made many a fierce enchanter flee;

And bore the high-born dame away,

Long held the fell magician's prey.

Or oft would tell the shuddering tale

Of murders, and of goblins pale,

Haunting the guilty baron's side

( Whose floors with secret blood were dyed ),

Which o'er the vaulted corridor

On stormy nights was heard to roar,

By old domestic, waken'd wide

By the angry winds that chide:

Or else the mystic tale would tell

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.