Last scene of all:  An old and widowed man,
Whose years had reached life’s farthest, frailest span,
And o’er whose head, as every moment flew,
Eternity its dark’ning twilight threw,
Lay in his silent chamber, dull and lone,
Watching the midnight stars, as one by one
They as slow, voiceless spirits glided past
The window of his solitude, and cast
Their pale light on his brow; and thus he lay
Till the bright star that ushers in the day
Rose on his sight, and, with its cheering beams,
Lit in his bosom youth’s delicious dreams;
Yea, while he gazed upon that golden star,
Rolling in light, like love’s celestial car,
He deemed he in its radiance read the while
His children’s voices and his Helen’s smile;
And as it passed, and from his sight withdrew,
His longing spirit followed it! and flew
To heaven and deathless bliss—­from earth and care—­
To meet his Helen and his children there!

THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE LADY ETHELINE.

I.

Of a maiden’s beauty the world-wide praise
Was a thing of duty in chivalrous days,
When her envied name was a nation’s fame,
And raised in knights’ breasts an emulous flame,
Which lighted to honour and grand emprise—­
Things always so lovely in ladies’ eyes;
For a true woman’s favour will ever be won
By that which is noble and nobly done.

Sir Peregrine sounded his bugle horn
With a note of love and a blast of scorn;
Of love to the Ladye Etheline
Up in yon Castle of Eaglestein,
Whose beauty had passed o’er Christian land
As a philter to nerve the resolute hand
Of many a knight in the goodly throng
Who gathered round Godfrey of Buglion,
With Richard, and Raymond, and Leopold,
And thousands of others as brave and bold;
And a blast of scorn to every knight
Who would dare to challenge his envied right. 
The porte yields quick to the warder’s hand
By the Yerl’s consent, by the Yerl’s command;
And the ladye, who knew the winding sound,
As the tra-la-la rang all around,
Has opened her casement up on high,
And thrown him the kiss of her courtesy.

II.

“I am come, fair ladye, to beg of thee,
As here I crave upon bended knee,
That thou wilt grant unto my prayer
A single lock of thy golden hair,
To wear in a lockheart over my breast,
And carry with me to the balmy East—­
The land where the Saviour met his death,
The sacred Salem of saving faith,
Which holds the sepulchre of our Lord,
Defiled by a barbarous Paynim horde. 
Grant me the meed for which I burn,
And, by our Ladye, on my return,
We will wedded be in the sacred bands
Of a sacrament sealed by holy hands.”