I feared the Earl, so cold and grim,
I never dared be seen by him. 
When through our gate he used to ride,
My kinsman Walter bade me hide;
He said he was so stern. 
So, when the hunt came past our way,
I always hastened to obey,
Until I heard the bugles play
The notes of their return. 
But she—­my very heart-strings stir
Whene’er I speak or think of her—­
The whole wide world could never see
A noble lady such as she,
So full of angel charity.

Strange things of her our neighbours told
In the long winter evenings cold,
Around the fire.  They would draw near
And speak half-whispering, as in fear;
As if they thought the Earl could hear
Their treason ’gainst his name. 
They thought the story that his pride
Had stooped to wed a low-born bride,
A stain upon his fame. 
Some said ’twas false; there could not be
Such blot on his nobility: 
But others vowed that they had heard
The actual story word for word,
From one who well my lady knew,
And had declared the story true.

In a far village, little known,
She dwelt—­so ran the tale—­alone. 
A widowed bride, yet, oh! so bright,
Shone through the mist of grief, her charms;
They said it was the loveliest sight—­
She with her baby in her arms. 
The Earl, one summer morning, rode
By the sea-shore where she abode;
Again he came—­that vision sweet
Drew him reluctant to her feet. 
Fierce must the struggle in his heart
Have been, between his love and pride,
Until he chose that wondrous part,
To ask her to become his bride. 
Yet, ere his noble name she bore,
He made her vow that nevermore
She would behold her child again,
But hide his name and hers from men. 
The trembling promise duly spoken,
All links of the low past were broken;
And she arose to take her stand
Amid the nobles of the land. 
Then all would wonder—­could it be
That one so lowly born as she,
Raised to such height of bliss, should seem
Still living in some weary dream? 
’Tis true she bore with calmest grace
The honours of her lofty place,
Yet never smiled, in peace or joy,
Not even to greet her princely boy. 
She heard, with face of white despair,
The cannon thunder through the air,
That she had given the Earl an heir. 
Nay, even more, (they whispered low,
As if they scarce durst fancy so,)
That, through her lofty wedded life,
No word, no tone, betrayed the wife. 
Her look seemed ever in the past;
Never to him it grew more sweet;
The self-same weary glance she cast
Upon the grey-hound at her feet,
As upon him, who bade her claim
The crowning honour of his name.