No scene of danger or despair,
But she hath won her triumph there!
Away! nor cloud the festal morn
With thoughts of boding sadness borne!
Far other lovelier dreams are thine,
Fair daughter of a noble line!
Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height
Hath caught the flush of Eastern light,
Watching, while soft the morning air,
Parts on thy brow the sunny hair;
Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide,
Bears thy lov'd warrior to his bride,
He, whose high deeds romantic praise
Hath hallow'd with a thousand lays.
He came—that youthful chief—he came
That favour'd lord of love and fame!
His step was hurried—as if one
Who seeks a voice within to shun;
His cheek was varying, and express'd
The conflict of a troubled breast;
His eye was anxious—doubt, and dread,
And a stern grief, might there be read;
Yet all that mark'd his alter'd mien
Seem'd struggling to be still unseen.
Page:A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.pdf/17
This page has been validated.
