THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
49
Never was there more loyal knight.—
Gentles, my tale is told.
Strange contrast to each gorgeous vest,
His rough plaid cross’d upon his breast,
And looking worn, and wild, and rude,
As just from mountain solitude;
Though weary brow and drooping eye
Told wanderer 'neath a distant sky.
Heedless of all, with absent look,
The key of his clairshach he took;
But the first breath, oh! it was sweet,
As river gliding at your feet,
And leaving, as it murmurs by,
Your pleasant dream, half thought, half sigh.
E
