The King's Daughter/The King's Daughter

THE KING’S DAUGHTER.

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It was a lord and a gentle maid
⁠Sat in a greenwood bower,
And thus the brave Sir Alfred said
⁠To the greenwood’s fairest flower:—

“I have loved theo well, sweet Rosalie,—
⁠With thee I could live and die;
But thou art a maid of low degree,
⁠And of princely race am I.

“I have loved thee well, sweet Rosalie,
⁠I have loved a year and a day;
But a different fate is in store for me,
⁠And I must no longer stay.

“Thou art a cottage maiden, love,
⁠And know not thy own pedigree;
And I must marry the king’s daughter,
⁠For she is betrothed to me.”

There was a smile on Rosalie’s lip,
⁠But a tear in her blue eye shone;
The smile was all for her lover’s fate,
⁠The tear perchance for her own.

And down fell her ringlets of chestnut hair,
⁠Down in a shower of gold;
And she hid her face in her lover’s arms,
⁠With feelings best left untold.

Then slowly rose she in her bower,
⁠With something of pride and scorn,
And she look’d like a tall and dewy flower
⁠That lifts up its head to the morn.

She flung her golden ring’ets aside,
⁠And a deep blush crimson’d her cheek,—
“Heaven bless thee, Alfred, and thy young bride,
⁠Heaven give you the joy you seek!

“Thou wert not born for a cottage, love,
⁠Nor yet for a maiden of low degree;
Thou wilt find thy mate in the king’s daughter—
⁠Forget and forgive thy Rosalie.”

Sir Alfred has flung him upon his steed,
⁠But he rides at a laggard pace;
Of the road he is travelling he takes no heed,
⁠And a deadly paleness is on his face.

Sir Alfred has come to the king’s palace,
⁠And slowly Sir Alfred has lighted down ;
He sigh’d when he thought of the king’s daughter—
⁠He sigh’d when he thought of her father’s crown.

“Oh! that my home were the greenwood bower,
⁠Under the shelter of the greenwood tree!
Oh! that my strength had been all my dower,
⁠All my possessions Rosalie!”

Sir Alfred has entered tho royal hall
⁠’Midst a thousand nobles in rich array;
But he who was once more gay than all,
⁠Has never, I ween, one word to say.

The king sat high on his royal throne,
⁠Though his hairs were grey, his arm was strong,
“Good cousin,” he said, in a jocund tone,
⁠“Is it thou or thy steed that has stay’d so long?

“But it boots not now—Bring forth the bride!
⁠Thou hast never yet my daughter seen;
A woeful fate it is thine to bide,
⁠For her hair is red and her eyes are green!

The brido came forth in a costly veil,
⁠And nought of her face could Alfred see;
But his cheek grew yet more deadly pale,
⁠And he fell down faltering upon his knee:

“Pardon! pardon! my liege, my king!
⁠And let me speak whilo I yet am free;
But were she fair as the flowers of spring,
⁠To your daughter I never can husband be.”

Lightning flash’d from the king’s fierce eye,
⁠And thunder spoke in his angry tone,—
“Then the death of a traitor thou shalt die,
⁠And thy marriage peal shall be torture’s moan!”

“I never fear’d to die, Sir King,
⁠But my plighted faith I fear to break;
I novor fear’d the grave’s deep rest,
⁠But the pangs of conscience I fear to wake.”

Out then spoke the king’s daughter,
⁠And haughtily spoke she,—
“If Sir Alfred is vow’d to another love,
⁠He shall never be claim’d by me;—

If Sir Alfred is vow’d to another love,
⁠Why, let the knight go free;
Let him give his hand to his other love,
⁠There are hundreds as good as he!”

With a careless touch she threw back her veil,
⁠As if it by chance might be;
And who do you think was the king’s daughter?—
⁠His own—his long-loved Rosalie!

First he stood like a marble stone,
⁠And she like a lily sweet,
Then a sunny smile o’er his features shone,
⁠And then he was at her feet.