Page:Heath's Book of Beauty 1833.pdf/22

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Why did her eye in pity dwell Upon that English knight, The prisoner of the buried cell Where day forgot its light? It is a weary thing to lie With weak and fetter'd hand, While youth's brave time is passing by, And rust creeps o'er the brand.

'Twas in the still night's silent hours, The captive dreaming lay Of his own old ancestral towers. His mother far away. He heard a step—a low, hush'd breath— A sweet brow o'er him shone, As even by the bed of death Might shine an angel one.

She bound his wounds, she gave him food, With odours and red wine; And from a dreary solitude That cell became a shrine. She came there once—she came there twice— The third time he was free: She listen'd not her heart's advice, Though weak that heart might be:

But to the lover's gentle prayer Her pale lip still replied, "I may not, for a stranger's care,   Forsake my father's side."