“I strove in vain to lift my eyes,
    And made some indistinct replies;
    When one, more courteous and more kind,
    Stepp’d forth to save my fainting mind. 
    ’My liege, have pity! for, in truth,
    It is too hard upon her youth. 
    Though so alert and fleet in song,
    The strain was high, the race was long;
    And she before has never seen
    A monarch, save the fairy queen: 
    But does the lure of thought obey
    As falcons their appointed way;
    Train’d to one end, and wild as those
    If aught they know not interpose. 
    Vain then is strength, and skill is vain,
    Either to lead them or restrain. 
    The eye-lid closes, and the heart,
    Low-sinking, plays a traitor’s part;
    While wings, of late so firmly spread,
    Hang flagg’d and powerless as the dead! 
    With courts familiar from our birth,
    Is it fit subject for our mirth,
    That thus awakening from her theme,
      Where she through air and sea pursues,
      And all things governs, all subdues,
    (Like fetter’d captive in a dream,)
    Blindly to tread on unknown land,
    Without a guide or helping hand,
    No previous usage to befriend,
    (As well we might an infant lend
    Our eyes’ experience, ear, or touch!)
    Can we in reason wonder much,
    Her steps are tottering and unsure
    Where we have learnt to walk secure? 
    Is it not true, what I have told?’
    Her paus’d, my features to behold—­
    Earl William paus’d:  across his mien
    A strong and sudden change was seen,
    The courtier bend, protecting tone. 
    And smile of sympathy, were gone. 
    Abrupt his native accents broke,
    And his lips trembled as he spoke.

      “’How thus can Memory, in its flight,
    On wings of gossamer alight,
      Nor showing aim, nor leaving trace,
      From a poor damsel’s living face
    To features of a brave, dead knight! 
    In eyes so young, and so benign,
    What is it speaks of Palestine? 
    Of toils in early life I prov’d,
    And of a comrade dearly lov’d! 
    ’Tis true, he, like this maid, was young,
    And gifted with a tuneful tongue! 
    His looks [Errata:  locks], like her’s, were bright and fair,
      But light and laughing was his eye;
    The prophecy of future care
      In those thin, helmet lids we spy,
    Veiling mild orbs, of changeful hue,
    Where auburn half subsides in blue! 
    Lord Fauconberg, canst thou divine
    What is the curve, or what the line,
    That makes this girl, like lightning, send
    Looks of our long lamented friend? 
    If Richard liv’d, that sorcery spell
    Quickly his lion-heart would quell: 
    He never could her glance descry,
    And any wish’d-for boon deny! 
    She’s weeping too!—­most strangely wrought