214
Guendolen.
All a-flame, like a burning gem
Dropped from a fiend's red diadem;
Through the tufted moss, where the fern lies dead,
The glow-worm shimmers, and, over head,
A star betwixt the branches high
Looks down through the leaves like a panther's eye.
Dropped from a fiend's red diadem;
Through the tufted moss, where the fern lies dead,
The glow-worm shimmers, and, over head,
A star betwixt the branches high
Looks down through the leaves like a panther's eye.
The path is lost, and Guendolen,
Grown doubtful of her midnight fear,
Stands on the skirt of a hollow glen
And sees the dawn appear.
But, ere the leaves wax green with day,
She knows the chase has passed that way.
The turf is broken and trampled sore,
The low boughs hung with branches torn;
Here lies the plume Sir Ethel wore,
And here his silver hunting horn.
A steed that feeds at a fountain's edge,
Scared by her step, through the matted sedge
Drags his bruised limbs with pain,
Catching his hoof in the trailing rein.
Grown doubtful of her midnight fear,
Stands on the skirt of a hollow glen
And sees the dawn appear.
But, ere the leaves wax green with day,
She knows the chase has passed that way.
The turf is broken and trampled sore,
The low boughs hung with branches torn;
Here lies the plume Sir Ethel wore,
And here his silver hunting horn.
A steed that feeds at a fountain's edge,
Scared by her step, through the matted sedge
Drags his bruised limbs with pain,
Catching his hoof in the trailing rein.
