Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/250

Rh

The old ancestral tower is reft Of tapestry and of pall— There's not a tattered banner left Upon the broken wall. The owl hoots where the minstrel's lay Cheered my bold ancestors— And I must up and ride away, And win my golden spurs.

There's rust upon my good sword blade, My war-steed rests at ease, And still I haunt this darksome glade, Nor cross yon glittering seas. 'Tis idle grief to shed the tear, Though he was good and brave,— 'Tis idle grief to linger near My father's blood-stained grave.