Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1835.pdf/91

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But she sees beside the gate, A young and anxious palmer wait; Well she knows it is for her, He has come a worshipper. For a year and for a day, Hath he worn his weary way; Now a sign from that white hand, And the portals open stand. But a moment, and they meet, Raymond kneels him at her feet; Reading in her downcast eye, All that woman can reply. Weary, weary had the hours Passed within her fairy bowers; She was haunted with a dream Of the knight beside the stream. Who hath never felt the sense Of such charmed influence. When the shapes of midnight sleep One beloved object keep, Which amid the cares of day Never passes quite away? Guarded for the sweetest mood Of our happy solitude, Linked with every thing we love, Flower below, or star above: Sweet spell after sweet spell thrown Till the wide world is its own. Turned the ladye deadly pale, As she heard her lover's tale, "Yes," she said, oh! low sweet word, Only in a whisper heard. "Yes, if my true heart may be Worthy, Christian knight, of thee, By the love that makes thee mine I am deeply, dearly thine. But a spell is on me thrown, Six days may each deed be shown, But the seventh day must be Mine, and only known to me. Never must thy step intrude On its silent solitude.

Hidden from each mortal eye Until seven years pass by. When these seven years are flown, All my secret may be known. But if, with suspicious eye, Thou on those dark hours wilt pry, Then farewell, beloved in vain, Never might we meet again." Gazing on one worshipped brow, When hath lover spared a vow? With an oath and with a prayer Did he win the prize he sought, Never was a bride so fair, As the bride that Raymond brought From the wood's enchanted bowers To his old ancestral towers. ——Oh, sweet love, could thy first prime Linger on the steps of time, Man would dream the unkind skies Sheltered still a Paradise. But, alas, the serpent's skill Is amid our garden still.   Soon a dark inquiring thought On the baron's spirit wrought: She, who seemed to love him so, Had she aught he might not know? Was it wo, how could she bear Grief he did not soothe nor share? Was it guilt? no—heaven's own grace Lightened in that loveliest face. Then his jealous fancies rose, (Our Lady keep the mind from those!) Like a fire within the brain, Maddens that consuming pain. Henceforth is no rest by night, Henceforth day has no delight. Life hath agonies that tell Of their late left native hell. But mid their despair is none Like that of the jealous one. 'Tis again the fatal day, When the ladye must away,