Wyseby

OF THE FIRST IRVINGS. 75
And she— what time the setting sun
Was sinking in the yellow west,
Like infant, when the day is done,
Soft-smiling while it sinks to rest —
Would tell to Mora how in youth
Proud knights to her had bow'd the knee,
Brave, noble, handsome, young, — in sooth,
The pride of England's chivalry.
Then yhe would sing some olden lay
Of lady-love or knightly deeds,
Of maidens rudely borne away,
Of shiver'd spears, and meeting steeds.
Hush ! was that a low whistle she heard ? She
started to her feet, and hurried to the door of the
cavern. The awful stillness without was yet unbro-
ken. She bent her head low to listen, but no sound
came — none! The shadows of sadness were per-
ceptibly deepened on her face when she took her
seat at the rude table again. For some minutes she
sat in silence ; at length, in tones even more mourn-
ful than before, she resumed her song.
Then was it strange in Mora's heart
The torch of fair Romance was burning
Of life each lone or dreary part
To softest hues of moonlight turning ?
No ! she would sit while yet a child,
And fashion mighty fents of war ;
Then see the victor — fancy wild — •
Returning 'mid the dim afar.
He swears he'd dare each field again,
But one sweet glance from her to win ;