The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine—
Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine—
Thou’st had thy will!