GINEVRA (to her party).

    Control your wit and mirth, compose your faces,
    That longer yet this pastime may amuse us! 
    Now, Percival, proceed!

  PERCIVAL.

    What was I saying? 
    I have it now!  Beside the brook she stood;
    Her dusky hair hung rippling round her face. 
    And perched upon her shoulders sat a dove;
    Right home-like sat she there, her wings scarce moving. 
    Now suddenly she stoops—­I mean the maiden—­
    Down to the spring, and lets her little feet
    Sink in its waters, while her colored skirt
    Covered with care what they did not conceal;
    And I within the shadow of the trees,
    Inly admired her graceful modesty. 
    And as she sat and gazed into the brook,
    Plashing and sporting with her snow-white feet,
    She thought not of the olden times, when girls
    Pleased to behold their faces smiling back
    From the smooth water, used it as their mirror
    By which to deck themselves and plait their hair;
    But like a child she sat with droll grimaces,
    Delighted when the brook gave back to her
    Her own distorted charms; so then I said: 
    Conceited is she not.

  KENNETH.

    The charming child!

  ELLINOR.

    What is a collier’s child to you!  By heaven! 
    Don’t make me fancy that you know her, Sir!

  PERCIVAL.

    And now resounding through the mountain far,
    From the church-tower rang forth the vesper-bell,
    And she grew grave and still, and shaking quickly
    From off her face the hair that fell around it,
    She cast a thoughtful and angelic glance
    Upward, where clouds had caught the evening red. 
    And her lips gently moved with whispered words,
    As rose-leaves tremble when the soft winds breathe. 
    O she is saintly, flashed it through my soul;
    She marking on her brow the holy cross,
    Lifted her face, bright with the sunset’s flush,
    While holy longing and devotion’s glow,
    Moistened her eye and hung like glory round her. 
    Then to her breast the little dove she clasped,
    Embraced, caressed it, kissed its snow-white wings,
    And laughed; when, with its rose-red bill, it pecked,
    As if with longing for her fresh young lips. 
    How she’d caress it, said I to myself,
    Were this her child, the offspring of her love! 
    And now a voice resounded through the woods,
    And cried, “Griselda,” cried it, “Come, Griselda!”
    While she, the distant voice’s sound distinguished,
    Sprang quickly up, and scarcely lingering
    Her feet to dry, ran up the dewy bank
    With lightning speed, her dove in circles o’er her,
    Till in the dusky thicket disappeared
    For me the last edge of her flutt’ring robe. 
    “Obedient is she,” said I to myself;
    And many things revolving, turned I home.