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Lord Hubert pledg'd his sacred word,
He wept, and, kneeling, swore,
In England ne'er to wield a sword,
Or shoot an arrow more.
He wept, and, kneeling, swore,
In England ne'er to wield a sword,
Or shoot an arrow more.
From civil war, whose daily crimes
This island long shall rue,
From all the evil of the times,
In anguish he withdrew.
This island long shall rue,
From all the evil of the times,
In anguish he withdrew.
I wonder that, by nature bold,
He stoop'd to wear disguise,
Or leave the hapless tale untold,
Which wakens thy surprise!
He stoop'd to wear disguise,
Or leave the hapless tale untold,
Which wakens thy surprise!
Yet the sad shame that fill'd his breast,
May well thy pity crave,
A turtle dove may build her nest
Upon thy father's grave—"
May well thy pity crave,
A turtle dove may build her nest
Upon thy father's grave—"
