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TALE OF THE 14TH CENTURY.
253
What smile but his with joy can light
The eye obscured by age's night?
Last of a loved and honoured line,
Last tie to earth in life's decline,
Till death its lingering spark shall dim,
That faithful eye must gaze on him!
Silent and swift, with footstep light,
Haste on those fugitives of night,
They reach the boat—the rapid oar,
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore;
The bark is gained—a gallant few,
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew;
The pennant, in the moonlight beam,
With soft suffusion glows;
From the white sail a silvery gleam,
Falls on the wave's repose;
Long shadows undulating play,
From mast and streamer, o'er the bay;
But still so hushed the summer-air,
