Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/277

 O that the living stars would shine That light thy brow! Rise, lady, rise!

Rise, lady, rise, Ere war's rude cries Fright land and sea! To-morrow's light sees mail-sheathed knight, Even hapless me, Careering through the bloody fight Afar from thee! Rise, lady, rise!

Mute, lady, mute? I have no lute, Nor rebeck small To soothe thine ear with lay sincere, Or Madrigal; With helm on head and hand on spear, On thee I call! Mute, lady, mute!

Mute, lady, mute To love's fond suit?