Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/236

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 She fell as falls the rose in spring, The fairest are ever most perishing, Yet lingers that tale of sorrow and love, Of the Christian maid and her Moslem love; A tale to be told in the twilight hour, For the beauty's tears in her lonely bower.

  the last minstrel; he was one Well the eye loves to look upon. Slight, but tall, the gallant knight Had the martial step he had used in fight; Dark and rich curl'd the auburn hair O'er a brow, like the ocean by moonlight, fair; His island colour was on his cheek, Enough of youth in his health to speak; 