In the golden reign of Charlemaign the king,
  The three-and-thirtieth year, or thereabout,
  Young Eginardus, bred about the court,
  (Left mother-naked at a postern-door,)
  Had thence by slow degrees ascended up,—­
  First page, then pensioner, lastly the king’s knight
  And secretary; yet held these steps for nought,
  Save as they led him to the Princess’ feet,
  Eldest and loveliest of the regal three,
  Most gracious, too, and liable to love: 
  For Bertha was betrothed; and she, the third,
  Giselia, would not look upon a man. 
  So, bending his whole heart unto this end,
  He watched and waited, trusting to stir to fire
  The indolent interest in those large eyes,
  And feel the languid hands beat in his own,
  Ere the new spring.  And well he played his part,—­
  Slipping no chance to bribe or brush aside
  All that would stand between him and the light: 
  Making fast foes in sooth, but feeble friends. 
  But what cared he, who had read of ladies’ love,
  And how young Launcelot gained his Guenovere,—­
  A foundling, too, or of uncertain strain? 
  And when one morning, coming from the bath,
  He crossed the Princess on the palace-stair,
  And kissed her there in her sweet disarray,
  Nor met the death he dreamed of in her eyes,
  He knew himself a hero of old romance,—­
  Not seconding, but surpassing, what had been.

  And so they loved; if that tumultuous pain
  Be love,—­disquietude of deep delight,
  And sharpest sadness:  nor, though he knew her heart
  His very own,—­gained on the instant, too,
  And like a waterfall that at one leap
  Plunges from pines to palms, shattered at once
  To wreaths of mist and broken spray-bows bright,—­
  He loved not less, nor wearied of her smile;
  But through the daytime held aloof and strange
  His walk; mingling with knightly mirth and game;
  Solicitous but to avoid alone
  Aught that might make against him in her mind;
  Yet strong in this,—­that, let the world have end,
  He had pledged his own, and held Rhotruda’s troth.

  But Love, who had led these lovers thus along,
  Played them a trick one windy night and cold: 
  For Eginardus, as his wont had been,
  Crossing the quadrangle, and under dark,—­
  No faint moonshine, nor sign of any star,—­
  Seeking the Princess’ door, such welcome found,
  The knight forgot his prudence in his love;
  For lying at her feet, her hands in his,
  And telling tales of knightship and emprise
  And ringing war, while up the smooth white arm
  His fingers slid insatiable of touch,
  The night grew old:  still of the hero-deeds
  That he had seen he spoke, and bitter blows
  Where all the land seemed driven into dust,
  Beneath fair Pavia’s wall, where Loup beat down
  The Longobard, and Charlemaign laid on,
  Cleaving horse and rider; then, for dusty drought
  Of the fierce tale, he drew her lips to his,
  And silence locked the lovers fast and long,
  Till the great bell crashed One into their dream.