She leant against the armed man, Few sorrows hath she of her own, I played a soft and doleful air, She listened with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined; and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone She listened with a flitting blush, 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, 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, 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; His dying words-but when I reached All impulses of soul and sense The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, She wept with pity and delight, Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside, 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. |