A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.
133
Were castles, tenanted now by the owl,
The spider's garrison: there is not one
Without some strange old legend of the days
When love was life and death,—when lady's glove
Or sunny curl were banners of the battle.
My history is of the tower which looks
Upon the little island
Lord Herbert sat him in his hall: the hearth
Was blazing as it mocked the storm without
With its red cheerfulness; the dark hounds lay
Around the fire; and the old knight had doffed
His hunting-cloak, and listened to the lute
And song of the fair girl who at his knee
Was seated. In the April hour of life,
