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Rh

Yet turned he not; one moment’s grief, One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief, One thought, half pity, half remorse, Passed o’er him. On he urged his horse; Hill, ford, and valley spurred he by, And when his castle gate was nigh, White foam was on his ‘broider’d rein, And each spur had a blood-red stain. But soon he entered that fair hall: His laugh was loudest there of all; And the cup that wont one name to bless, Was drained for its forgetfulness. The ring, once next his heart, was broken; The gold chain kept another token. Where is the curl he used to wear— The raven tress of silken hair?