At the royal rein attending
Does Lord Leicester ride,
To the mane his dark locks bending,
As he keeps her side—
And his voice is soft and low.
Proud he welcomes in his sovereign,
Proud he paceth by,
Yet there was some trouble hovering
O’er his large dark eye.
Mockery of life’s fairest show,
Who can read the heart below?
Where is she, the sorrow-laden,
In this glorious hour?—
Lonely sits the lonely maiden,
In the haunted tower.
Sadly is it haunted now
By the thoughts that memory bringeth
Most are wanted not;
Wearily her hands she wringeth
O’er her weary lot—
While her golden tresses flow
Loose o’er her neglected brow.
Pale the pitying moonlight gleaming
Shows her pale sweet face,
While the bright hair round her streaming,
Loses not its grace,
Though so carelessly arrayed.
On her hand her white brow stooping,
Leaneth she alone;
With a weary spirit drooping
Over days now gone—
Days ere love the heart betrayed
Thus to solitude and shade.
Ever thus does woman's spirit
Choose the dangerous part;
Still the worst she doth inherit
Of the beating heart—
Much must it abide.
Scarcely hath she left her childhood,
She who leans above,
Pining for her native wild wood,
For her father’s love.
Better far that she had died
Than another love have tried.
33
