Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/679

 I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade—

There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;—

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain— And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;—