Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/256

 Is that lute-breathing voice Which my rapt soul is hearing 'Tis singing, 'tis singing Thy deep love for me, And my faithful heart echoes Devotion to thee.

Endearing! endearing! Why so endearing, At each Passage of Arms Is the herald's bold cheering? 'Tis then thou art kneeling With pure hands to heaven, And each prayer of thy heart For my good lance is given.

Endearing! endearing! Why so endearing Is the fillet of silk That my right arm is wearing? Once it veiled the bright bosom That beats but for me; Now it circles the arm that Wins glory for thee!