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My First, that was so fresh and fair,
Hath faded-faded from thy face;
And pale Decay hath left no trace Of bloom and beauty there.
And round that virgin heart of thine
My Second winds his cold caress;
That virgin heart, whose tenderness Was Passion's purest shrine.
Roses are springing on thy clay ;
And there my Whole, obscurely bright,
Still shows his little lamp by night, And hides it still by day.
Aptly it decks that cypress bower,
For even thus thy faith was proved, Most clearly seen, most fondly loved, In Sorrow's darkest hour.
When my First flings down o'er tower and town
Its sad and solemn veil,
And the stars are ghastly pale,
In the pause of the fitful gale,
My Second will come to his ancient home
From his dark and narrow bed;
But ye cannot bear its tread;
But'ye need not fear the dead.
Through battle and blast his bark had past,
O'er many a stormy tide;
He had won the beauteous bride;
And by my Whole he died.
Up, up, Lord Raymond, to the fight !
Gird on thy bow of yew !
Thy falchion's temper true;
No craven be! yet beaten back
From the field of death he fled;
The lion's lonely bed;
At dawn and dusk my Whole goes forth
On the ladder's topmost round;
He bids the bugle sound;
MORNING is beaming o'er brake and bower,
Lo! where my Second, in gallant array,
Spread is the banquet, and studied the song;
Look to the hill, is he climbing its side ?
My First was dark o'er earth and air,
As dark as she could be;
Were only two or three;
As you or I could see.
“ Away, King Cole!” mine hostess said;
“Flagon and flask are dry; Your nag is neighing in the shed,
For he knows a storm is nigh :" She set my Second on his head,
And she set it all awry.
He stood upright upon his legs;
Long life to good King Cole! . With wine and cinnamon, ale and eggs,
He filled a silver bowl; He drained the draught to the very dregs,
And he called that draught-my Whole.