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Rh

Young knight, think not of hawk or hound; Fair maiden, fling not thy smiles around; Warrior, regard not the sword at thy side; Baron, relax thou thy brow of pride; Let worldly coldness and care depart, And yield to the spell of the minstrel's art. ‘T was a spacious hall, and around it rose Carved pillars as white as the snows; Between, the purple tapestry swept, Where, work'd in myriad shades, were kept Memories of many an ancient tale, And of many a blooming cheek now pale. The dome above like a glory shone, Or a cloud which the sunset lingers upon, While the tinted pane seem'd the bright resort, Where Iris' self held her minstrel court;