Oh! thou who, in my early youth, <br />When fancy wore the garb of truth, <br />Wert wont to win my infant feet <br />To some retired, deep fabled seat, <br />Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, <br />The midnight ghost was known to glide; <br />Or lay me in some lonely glade, <br />In native Sherwood's forest shade, <br />Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, <br />Was wont his sylvan courts to hold; <br />And there, as musing deep I lay, <br />Would steal my little soul away, <br />And all my pictures represent, <br />Of siege and solemn tournament; <br />Or bear me to the magic scene, <br />Where, clad in greaves and gabardine, <br />The warrior knight of chivalry <br />Made many a fierce enchanter flee; <br />And bore the high-born dame away, <br />Long held the fell magician's prey. <br />Or oft would tell the shuddering tale <br />Of murders, and of goblins pale, <br />Haunting the guilty baron's side <br />(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), <br />Which o'er the vaulted corridor <br />On stormy nights was heard to roar, <br />By old domestic, waken'd wide <br />By the angry winds that chide: <br />Or else the mystic tale would tell <br />Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell.<br /><br />Henry Kirke White<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-genius-of-romance/
