The ladye has, with a gesture bland,
Taken her scissors into her hand,
And clipt a lock of her auburn hair,
And yielded it to his ardent prayer;
But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes
Hath fallen upon the golden prize. 
“Ah! blessed drop,” said the knight, and smiled—­
“This tear was from thine heart beguiled,
And I take it to be an omen of good,
For tears, my love, are purified blood,
That impart a beauty to female eyes,
And vouch for her kindly sympathies.” 
“Ah! no, ah! no,” the maid replied—­
“An omen of ill,” and she heavily sighed;
Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek,
Nor further word could the damoiselle speak. 
Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still,
“If tears, my love, are an omen of ill,
The way to deprive them of evil spell
Is to kiss them away, and—­all is well!”
And he took in his arms the yielding maid,
And kissed them away, as he had said.

The warder has oped the porteluse again,
To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train. 
Loud spoke the horn o’er fell and dell,
“Fare thee—­fare thee—­fare thee well;”
But Etheline, as she waved her hand,
Could not those flowing tears command,
And thought the bugle in sounds did say,
“Fare thee—­fare thee well for aye.”

III.

A year has passed:  at Eaglestein
There sat the Ladye Etheline;
Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale,
Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail;
For though through the world’s busy crowd
The deeds of the war were sung aloud,
And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled
With Godfrey’s among the brave and bold,
No letter had come from her knight so dear,
To belie the spell of the lock and tear. 
The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say,
“Alas! for the hour when he went away.” 
But the womb of old Time is everly full,
And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull. 
Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear,
And echoed around both far and near;
It is Sir Ronald from Palestine—­
Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline. 
“I have come,” said he, “through pain and peril,
To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl: 
Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan,
Who slew our most gallant capitan! 
Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour,
Fell wounded before High Salem’s tower,
And ere he died he commissioned me
To bear to Scotland, and give to thee,
This bit of the genuine haly rood
Dipt in his heart’s outpouring blood,
That thou mightst give it to Etheline,
As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine.”

IV.

All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere,
The ancient elms seem withered and bare,
The river asleep in its rushy bed,
The waters are green, and the grass is red,
The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers,
Where oft in the dewy evening hours,
Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell,
And the merle was singing her day-farewell,
The Lady Etheline would recline
And think of her dear Sir Peregrine: 
All was cheerless now, forlorn,
As if they missed her at early morn;
At noontide and at evening fall
They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.