Elenore.
This tale is the versification of an old tradition in Russell's Tour through Germany. I have ventured on one or two alterations: the original makes Nero the father; and somewhat similar to the discovery of Bedreddin by his cream-tarts, in the Arabian Nights, the emperor recognizes his daughter by the flavour of a dish she alone knew how to prepare.
Is there a knight who, for love of me,
Into the court below will spring,
And bear from the lion the glove I fling.
This is an anecdote told of De Lorge, a knight of Francis the First's, in whose presence it took place.
And soon I deem'd the time would be,
For many a chief stood leagued with me.
I know not whether it may be necessary to remark, that the period I suppose in this poem is that of the later time of chivaly in Provence, when the spirit of religious enquiry was springing, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of the Albigenses.
Had been but as the lightning's shock,
Shedding rich ore upon the rock.
It is a belief among some savage nations,—the North
