I.

And what reflections took their way
Through Ranolf s mind as thus he lay
Pondering on Amo's questions, while the Maid
So lightly slumbered, lulled in noontide rest
So still, the golden spots that flecked its shade
Moved only with her moving half-hid breast?

"What must I teach her? how impress
This pliant Spirit's willingness?
On this unlettered Soul so white
What characters am I to write?
What truths in sooth have I to tell
To one whose native instincts might,
For aught I know, teach me as well?—
Where am I? let me run again
O'er facts indubitable and plain.
With nothing else have I to do
But what I know or feel is true.—