Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/551

513 How changed since last her speaking eye

Glanced gladness round the glittering room,

Where high-born men were proud to wait—

Where Beauty watched to imitate

Her gentle voice—her lovely mien—

And gather from her air and gait

The graces of its Queen:

Then,—had her eye in sorrow wept,

A thousand warriors forth had leapt,

A thousand swords had sheathless shone,

And made her quarrel all their own.

Now,—what is she? and what are they?

Can she command, or these obey?

All silent and unheeding now,

With downcast eyes and knitting brow,

And folded arms, and freezing air,

And lips that scarce their scorn forbear,

Her knights, her dames—her court is there:

And he—the chosen one, whose lance

Had yet been couched before her glance,

Who—were his arm a moment free—

Had died or gained her liberty;

The minion of his father's bride,—

He, too, is fettered by her side;

Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim

Less for her own despair than him:

Those lids—o'er which the violet vein