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There flash'd, though now the step was staid, the falcon eye was still, The fiery blood of Lancaster, the haughty Tudor's will.

A lady by the balustrade, a little way apart, Lean'd languidly indulging in that solitude of heart Which is Love's empire, tenanted by visions of his own— Such solitude is soon disturb'd, such visions soon are flown:

Love's pleasant time is with her now, for she hath hope and faith, Which think not what the lover doth, but what the lover saith; Upon her hand there is a ring, within her heart a vow:— No voice is whispering at her side—what doth she blush for now?

A noble galley valiantly comes on before the wind, Her sails are dyed by the red sky she's leaving fast behind; None other mark'd the ship that swept so eagerly along; The lady knew the flag, and when hath lover's eye been wrong?

The lonely lady watch'd, meantime went on the converse gay, It was as if the spirits caught the freshness of the day: "Good omen such a morn as this," her grace of England said: "What progress down our noble Thames hath Sir John Perrot made?"

Then spoke Sir Walter Raleigh, with a soft and silv'ry smile, And an earnest gaze that seem'd to catch the queen's least look the while: "Methinks that every wind in heav'n will crowd his sails to fill, For goeth he not forth to do his gracious sovereign's will?"—