A woman, by the flowing hair,
The small feet and the delicate hand;
Yet by it lies the warrior's brand,
And on it is a warrior's dress,
Ill suited to its gracefulness:
’Tis exquisitely carved: the brow
Seems as if life were in its glow,
As the small fingers still could guide
The broken lute-chords by their side.—
There was a hermit once, whose cell
Of loneliness was in this dell:
He lived in silence and in gloom,
His sole employ to raise this tomb;
None heard his voice, none saw his face,
Few ventured near his dwelling place,
For the fair tomb was said to be
The work of potent witcherie;
’Twas potent, for grief was the spell,
And love that wrought the miracle. - - -
Oh Glory, sunlight of the grave,
What is thy spell to charm the brave?
What thy spell, that it could divide
Earl Richard from his young fair Bride?
The first spring blossoms saw her his,—
The fruit shone on their parting kiss.
The Earl to Palestine is gone,
The Bride sits in her bower alone.
Alone! so thought her lord, when, turning,
His full heart with the fancy burning,
To the white shores, he breathed her name—
An echo to his murmur came,
’Twas answered by his name,—his breast
Again is to his Edith's prest!
Garbed as a page, her home she left;
Bereaved of him, of all bereft.
Lost, in that thought all else above,
A woman's fear in woman's love.
Woman, what fearless faith is thine!
She went with him to Palestine;
She went with him,—through toil, through fear,
Her gentle smile was ever near.
And sometimes, from the rush of war,
Beneath the lovely evening star
