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"Start not, sweet maid!" the conqueror cried, "In virtue's cause we bleed with joy;Nor fear again the Bokian pow'rShall reach thee in an evil hour, And all our work destroy.
Go, seek thy sorrowing aged sire; Be peace and happiness your lot!Be virtuous thus and pious still,The green-rob'd Fairies of the hill Shall guard thy lowly cot.
Aurora now with rosy hands, Unlocks the golden gates of morn,And we to hail our king must flyTo courts unseen by mortal eye, On downy pinions borne."
He ceas'd, and quickly from her sight They vanish'd like a passing dream;No more was seen the bloody stain,The dew-drop sparkled on the plain, Unsullied flow'd the stream.
Now blue-ey'd peace, and rose-lip'd joy, Again on Richard's cottage smil'd;Yet oft he shook his silv'ry head,And told with fear and solemn dread, The story of his child.
