miscellaneous poems.
139
That bright flower of love I would wreath round my soul—
Then yield her, the prize, to thy victor's control.
Then yield her, the prize, to thy victor's control.
Faint, faint felt the knight, and his head drooped low,
'Till it bent to the rise of his steel saddle-bow;
The bright sun seemed shaded, and fast o'er the ground
The lengthening shadows were gathering round.
'Till it bent to the rise of his steel saddle-bow;
The bright sun seemed shaded, and fast o'er the ground
The lengthening shadows were gathering round.
Yield, yield thy Oneila, thine arm, boy, is weak—
The soft down is short on thy fair youthful check;
Young beauty from thee no protection can claim
Fame breathes not one blast at the sound of thy name.
The soft down is short on thy fair youthful check;
Young beauty from thee no protection can claim
Fame breathes not one blast at the sound of thy name.
The Heavens were purple with sunset's last glow
As young Theodore turned from his dark-visor'd foe;
He thought of his lordly and far-distant tower—
Of her, his young bride, in her desolate bower;
As young Theodore turned from his dark-visor'd foe;
He thought of his lordly and far-distant tower—
Of her, his young bride, in her desolate bower;
