Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed

The hour of silence and of rest.

On the high turret sitting lone,

She waked at times the lute's soft tone;
Touched a wild note, and all between

Thought of the bower of hawthorns green.
Her golden hair streamed free from band,
Her fair cheek rested on her hand,
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,

For lovers love the western star.

XXV.

Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen,

That rises slowly to her ken,

And, spreading broad its wavering light,

Shakes its loose tresses on the night?

Is

yon red glare the western star?—

O, 'tis the beacon blaze of war!

Scarce could she draw her tightened breath,

For well she knew the fire of death!

XXVI.

The Warder viewed it blazing strong,
And blew his war-note loud and long,
Till at the high and haughty sound,
Rock, wood, and river, rung around.
The blast alarmed the festal hall,
And startled forth the warriors all;
Far downward, in the castle-yard,

Full many a torch and cresset glared;
And helms and plumes, confusedly tossed,
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost;
And spears in wild disorder shook,

Like reeds beside a frozen brook.

XXVII.

The Seneschal, whose silver hair

Was reddened by the torches' glare,
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud,
And issued forth his mandates loud.—