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Were castles, tenanted now by the owl, The spider's garrison: there is not one Without some strange old legend of the days When love was life and death,—when lady's glove Or sunny curl were banners of the battle. My history is of the tower which looks Upon the little island

sat him in his hall: the hearth Was blazing as it mocked the storm without With its red cheerfulness; the dark hounds lay Around the fire; and the old knight had doffed His hunting-cloak, and listened to the lute And song of the fair girl who at his knee Was seated. In the April hour of life,