THE IMPROVISATRICE.
37
Yet turned he not; one moment’s grief,
One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief,
One thought, half pity, half remorse,
Passed o’er him. On he urged his horse;
Hill, ford, and valley spurred he by,
And when his castle gate was nigh,
White foam was on his ‘broider’d rein,
And each spur had a blood-red stain.
But soon he entered that fair hall:
His laugh was loudest there of all;
And the cup that wont one name to bless,
Was drained for its forgetfulness.
The ring, once next his heart, was broken;
The gold chain kept another token.
Where is the curl he used to wear—
The raven tress of silken hair?
