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And i' the sun, like shining gold,
Rich wavy hair in many a fold
Shaded his cheek's soft bloom.
His cheeks!—No—Rupert, as he gazed,
Knew well that clear fair brow,
And wond'ring, murmured faintly forth,
"My Edith!—is it thou?"—
*****
And it was woman's love or hate—
Call it whate'er ye will—
Had braved the Ladye to the field,
Her own true Knight to kill.
He deemed her false—and she soon knew
Herself and love forsaken;
And with a woman's recklessness,
This wild revenge had taken.
"And could'st thou dream thine Edith false,
Who was so true to thee?
Oh! that a whim should seem to break
Vows kept so faithfully—
And thou hast wooed another love—
Her favour decks thy crest."
"Hush thee, mine Edith—who was't gave
The flower found next my breast?
