72
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Never shall crested casque my temples grace
Until again I look on thy sweet face."
A shriek burst from her—it was lost in air;
She call'd upon his name,—he was not there.
But leave we her, her solitude to keep,
To pray the Virgin's pity, wail and weep
O'er all the tender thoughts that have such power
Upon the constant heart in absent hour;
And go we forth with our young knight to see
What high adventure for his arms may be.
Onward he rode upon a barbed steed,
Milk-white as is the maiden's bridal weed,
Champing his silver bit. From throat to heel
Himself was clad in Milan's shining steel;
The surcoat that he wore was work'd with gold;
And from his shoulder fell the scarlet fold
