THE EFFIGIES.
259
Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest
By the armed knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes array'd;
What was thy tale?—Oh! gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?
He wooed a bright and burning star—
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow'd far
His fast receding plume;
The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;
The pang but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?
