18 



The chief approaches the fair mourner, and addresses 

 her, 



Hast thou, sweet maid! of golden hair! 

 Beheld my hounds in chase ? 



She replies, 



Thy chase, O king, was not my care ; 



I nothing of it know; 

 Far other thoughts my bosom share, 



The thoughts, alas, of woe! 



Alas, my ring, for whose dear sake 

 These ceaseless tears I shed. 



Fell from my finger, in the lake, 

 (The soft-hair'd virgin said.) 



Let me conjure thee, generous king! 



Compassionate as brave, 

 Find for me now my beauteous ring, 



That fell beneath the wave. 



The tale proceeds: 



Scarce was the soft entreaty made, 

 Her treasure to redeem. 



When his fair form he disarraj»'d. 

 And plung'd into the stream. 



At the white-handed fair's request, 

 Five times the lake he try'd ; 



On ev'ry side his search address'd, 

 Till he the ring descry'd. 



But 



