THE QUEEN OF CYPRUS.
123
Nought was there or of shout or song,
That bear young monarch's praise along;
Many there were that bent the knee,
But many bent it silently.
They led him to a stately room,
Yet with somewhat of nameless gloom;
Flowers were there, but wither'd all;
Music, but with a dying fall;
Maidens, but each with veiled face.
Tancred gazed round, he knew the place;
'T was here his interview had been
With her its young and radiant queen.
There was her couch; was she there yet[1]
He started back: the brow was set
In its last mould; that marble cheek,
Fair as if death were loth to break
- ↑ ? added in later editions
