Sir Everard kneel'd, and strove to pray, He pray'd for light, and he prayed for day, And ever I mutter'd clear and well XII. THE canvas rattled on the mast, And on my First Sir Florice stood, And looked upon the lengthening flood Where the proudest Moslem flee, My lady love, my lady love, Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell, The echo of the wave; But still he struck my Second there, Those hours when every hue was fair, And every hope was true: "If still your angel footsteps move, Where mine may never be, My lady love, my lady love, Oh, dream one dream of me!" Not long the Christian captive pined !— Queen Folly ne'er was yet content My heart to thee, my lady love, XII. UNCOUTH WAS I of face and form, Not a warrior went to the battle plain, To my dripping brow and lip. Within my Second's dark recess Before the mouth in lowliness My rude adorers knelt; And ever the shriek rang loud within, And amid the sin and smoke and din, My priests are rotting in their grave, No crown upon my brow; My name and my memory pass away XIV. LORD RONALD by the rich torchlight Feasted his vassals tall; And he broached my First, that jovial knight, Within his bannered hall: The red stream went from wood to can, And then from can to mouth, And the deuce a man knew how it ran, Nor heeded, north or south: "Let the health go wide," Lord Ronald cried, As he saw the river flow "One health to-night to the noblest Bride, And one to the stoutest Foe!" Lord Ronald kneeled, when the morning came, Low in his mistress' bower; And she gave him my Second, that beauteous dame, For a spell in danger's hour: Her silver shears were not at hand; And she smiled a playful smile, "And ride, and ride," Lord Ronald cried, Lord Ronald stood, when the day shone fair, And marked how my Whole was crumbling there With the battle's iron hail: The bastion and the battlement On many a craven crown, Like rocks from some huge mountain rent, Were tumbling darkly down: "Whate'er betide," Lord Ronald cried, As he bade his trumpets blow— I shall win to-night the noblest Bride, XV. ONE day my First young Cupid made For alas! he has learn'd his father's trade, He work'd not the work with golden twine, He left the metal to rust in the mine, My Second was a wayward thing, Like others of his name, With a fancy as light as the gossamer's wing, And a spirit as hot as flame, And apt to trifle time away, And rather fool than knave, And either very gravely gay, And far too weak, and far too wild, And alas! as he led, that festal night, And felt, by the flambeau's flickering light, |