LORD IVON. Well! A summer, and a winter, and a spring, With every morn more beautiful; the slave, As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hear ; Doing her maddest bidding at the risk Of life-what marvel if at last I grew Presumptuous? A messenger one morn Spurr'd through the gate-" A revel at the court! And many minstrels, come from many lands, And 'tis the royal pleasure that my lord Come with the young and lovely Lady Clare, Rob'd as the Queen of Faery, who shall crown The victor with his bays." Pass over all To that bewildering day. She sat enthroned Of the gay multitude. The minstrels changed The last Long lay was ended, and the silent crowd The sharp strings of a lyre were swept without, In a long stole, the herald led me in, A thousand eyes were on me: but I saw The new-throned queen, in her high place, alone; And, kneeling at her feet, 1 pressed my brow Of my past hours rush'd thick upon my brain; I so did paint her in her loveliness- The hoarded fire of a whole age of love Flung gold and flowers on my still quivering lyre; Too high for such a minstrel ! Did my star Speak in my fainting ear? Heard I the king? Or did the audible pulses of my heart Seem to me so articulate? I rose, And tore my mask away; and, as the stole Dropped from my shoulders, I glanced hurriedly It was enough! I saw that she was changed- With cold displeasure my o'er..daring thought; As stars to the rapt Arab, I could trace The scorn that waited on me! Sick of life, Yet, even then, with a half-rallied hope Prompting my faltering tongue, I blindly knelt, And claimed the king's fair promise Of Lady Clare? ISIDORE. For the hand LORD IVON. No, sweet one-for a sword. ISIDORE. You surely spoke to her? LORD IVON. I saw her face No more for years. I went unto the wars; A glory heralded the minstrel boy That monarchs might have envied. ISIDORE. Was she there? LORD IVON. Yes-and, O God! how beautiful! The last, The ripest seal of loveliness, was set Upon her form; and the all-glorious pride That I had worshipped on her girlish lip, When her scared dove fled to me, was matured Into a queenly grace; and nobleness Was bound like a tiara to her brow, |