Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/83

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Giving the sternness of a warrior's air To what had else seem'd face almost too fair: And, as in mockery of the helm, behind, Like plumes, his bright curls danced upon the wind; Curls of that tint o'er which a sunbeam flings A thousand colours on their auburn rings.

Two days he journey'd, till he reach'd a wood, A very dwelling-place of solitude; Where the leaves grew by myriads, and the boughs Were fill'd with linnets, singing their sweet vows; And dreaming, lover-like with open eye, He envied the gay birds that they might fly As with a thought from green tree to green tree, And wing their way with their dear loves to be.