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TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY.
And 'midst the wildest rage of fight,
And in the deepest calm of night,
To her his thoughts would wing their flight
With fond devotion warm;
Oft would those glowing thoughts pourtray
Some home, from tumults far away,
Graced with that angel form!
And now his spirit fondly deems
Fulfilled its loveliest, dearest dreams!
Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow,
In minstrel garb attends the chief?
The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow
Reveals a shade of grief.
Sorrow and time have touched his face,
With mournful yet majestic grace,
Soft as the melancholy smile
Of sunset on some ruined pile!
—It is the bard, whose song had power,
To lure the maiden from her tower;
