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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
And hitherto unknown in that far land
Was the sweet cunning of the limner's hand.
It was a fearful charge, all hope was vain,
And she must die the fire's red death of pain,
Unless that she could find some gentle knight
Who would do battle for a maiden's right,
And win: but her accuser never yet
In field or tourney had an equal met.
The fatal day is come, the pile is raised,
As eager for its victim fierce it blazed.
They led her forth: her brow and neck were bare,
Save for the silken veil of unbound hair;
So beautiful, few were there who could brook
To cast on her sweet face a second look.
