Giselia, would not look upon a man. So, bending his whole heart unto this end,

He watched and waited, trusting to stir to fire

The indolent interest in those large eyes,

And feel the languid hands beat in his own,

Ere the new spring. And well he played his part;

Slipping no chance to bribe, or brush aside,

All that would stand between him and the light;

Making fast foes in sooth, but feeble friends.

But what cared he, who had read of ladies' love,

And how young Launcelot gained his Guinevere;

A foundling too, or of uncertain strain?

And when one morning, coming from the bath,

He crossed the Princess on the pal

Seeking the Princess' door, such welcome found,

The knight forgot his prudence in his love;

For lying at her feet, her hands in his,

And telling tales of knightship and emprise,

And ringing war; while up the smooth white arm

His fingers slid insatiable of touch, The night grew old: still of the herodeeds

That he had seen, he spoke; and bitter blows

Where all the land seemed driven into dust!

Beneath fair Pavia's wall, where Loup beat down

The Longobard, and Charlemagne laid on,

Cleaving horse and rider; then, for dusty drought

Of the fierce tale, he drew her lips to his,

And silence locked the lovers fast and long,

Till the great bell crashed One into their dream.

The castle-bell! and Eginard not away!

With tremulous haste she led him to the door,

When, lo! the courtyard white with fallen snow,

While clear the night hung over it with stars.

A dozen steps, scarce that, to his own door:

A dozen steps? a gulf impassable! What to be done? Their secret

must not lie

cellate;

And over this, like trees about a stream,

Rich carven-work, heavy with wreath and rose,

Palm and palmirah, fruit and frondage, hung.

And more the high Hall held of rare and strange;.

For on the king's right hand Leæna bowed

In cloudlike marble, and beside her crouched

The tongueless lioness; on the other side,

And poising this, the second Sappho stood,

Young Erexcéa, with her head discrowned,

The anadema on the horn of her lyre;

And by the walls there hung in sequence long

Merlin himself, and Uterpendragon, With all their mighty deeds; down to the day

When all the world seemed lost in wreck and rout,

A wrath of crashing steeds and men; and, in

The broken battle fighting hopelessly,

King Arthur, with the ten wounds on his head!

"A boon, a boon, my father deir, A boon I beg of thee!". "Ask not that haughty Scottish lord, For him you ne'er shall see:

"But, for your honest asking else,
Weel granted it shall be."
"Then gin I die in Southern land,
In Scotland gar bury me.

"And the first kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the mass be sung;
And the next kirk that ye come to,
Ye's gar the bells be rung.

"And when you come to St. Mary's kirk,

Ye's tarry there till night."
And so her father pledged his word,
And so his promise plight.

She has ta'en her to her bigly bouer
As fast as she could fare;
And she has drank a sleepy draught,
That she had mixed wi' care.

And pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek,
That was sae bright of blee,
And she seemed to be as surely dead
As any one could be.

Then spake her cruel step-minnie,
"Tak ye the burning lead,
And drap a drap on her bosome,
To try if she be dead."

They took a drap o' boiling lead,
They drapped it on her breast;
"Alas! alas!" her father cried,
She's dead without the priest."

She neither chattered with her teeth,
Nor shivered with her chin;
"Alas! alas!" her father cried,
"There is nae breath within."

Then up arose her seven brethren,
And hewed to her a bier;
They hewed it frae the solid aik,
Laid it o'er wi' silver clear.

Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell;

And every stitch that they put in Sewed to a siller bell.

The first Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garr'd the bells be rung;
The next Scots kirk that they cam to,
They garr'd the mass be sung.

But when they cam to St. Mary's kirk,

There stude spearmen all in a raw; And up and started Lord William, The chieftane amang them a'.