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Sir Everard kneel'd, and strove to pray,
Till terror check'd his prayer;
Sir Everard fainted there.
The canvas rattled on the mast,
As rose the swelling sail;
Before the cheering gale;
As the far shore faded now,
With a pale and pensive brow:
Where the proudest Moslem flee,
Oh, waste one thought on me!"
Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell,
With none to soothe or save;
The echo of the wave;
And bade its tones renew
And every hope was true :—
"If still your angel footsteps move,
Not long the Christian captive pined !
My Whole was round his neck;
So white a skin to deck;
With gems or golden store,
Will rarely sigh for more ;— "My spirit to the Heaven above,
My body to the sea,
Oh, weep one tear for me!"
Uncouth was I of face and form,
But strong to blast and blight, By pestilence or thunderstorm,
By famine or by fight;
Not a pilot steered the ship,
To my dripping brow and lip.
Within my Second's dark recess
In silent pomp I dwelt;
My rude adorers knelt;
And ever the red blood ran;
Forging my First for man.
My priests are rotting in their grave,
My shrine is silent now,
No crown upon my brow;
Of all that was divine;
Is called by mortals mine!
Lord Ronald by the rich torchlight
Feasted his vassals tall;
Within his bannered hall:
And then from can to mouth,
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;
For a spell in danger's hour:
And she smiled a playful smile,
And grew not pale the while:
As he kissed its silken glow ;— "For he that woos the noblest Bride
Must beard the stoutest Foe!"
Lord Ronald stood, when the day shone fair,
In his garb of glittering mail; And marked how my Wholewas crumbling there
'With the battle's iron hail:
On many a craven crown,
Were tumbling darkly down:
As he bade his trumpets blow—
Or fall bv the stoutest Foe!"
One day my First young Cupid made
In Vulcan's Lemnian cell,
As many have found too well;
He wreathed it not with flowers,
The roses to fade in the bowers:
Of painful doubts and fears,
Of eloquent smiles and tears.
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,
Or very gaily grave;
And far too free of thought,
On Vulcan's anvil wrought.
And alas! as he led, that festal night,
His mistress down the stair, And felt, by the flambeau's flickering light,
That she was very fair,