A STORY OF OLDEN TIME.
So spake the gentle Lady Maude:
"He loves me not!—He said,
'Nay wed me unto whom ye list,
Now Margaret is dead;
But, dearer than the reddest rose
In bride-bower blushing brave,
Is the little daisy flower that grows
Upon my true love's grave.
And on my lips the kiss I took
So cold from hers, will cling,
For marriage-bell, for priest and book,
For spousal troth and ring.
So if in kiss of loveless lip,
In clasp of loveless hand,
There lie a spell old feud to quell,
And quench strife's smouldering brand;
If loveless bonds can fetter hate,
Be then this bridal sped:
Yet in an evil fate ye mate
The Living with the Dead.'"
"He loves me not!—He said,
'Nay wed me unto whom ye list,
Now Margaret is dead;
But, dearer than the reddest rose
In bride-bower blushing brave,
Is the little daisy flower that grows
Upon my true love's grave.
And on my lips the kiss I took
So cold from hers, will cling,
For marriage-bell, for priest and book,
For spousal troth and ring.
So if in kiss of loveless lip,
In clasp of loveless hand,
There lie a spell old feud to quell,
And quench strife's smouldering brand;
If loveless bonds can fetter hate,
Be then this bridal sped:
Yet in an evil fate ye mate
The Living with the Dead.'"
