100 ftf)* Jtut2Tm of &o$amonl)'$ 



The lady heard in her lonely bower, 



As she gazed on the wandering moon ; 

 When her pale beams brightened the old grey tower, 



Riding now in her highest noon. 



Ah ! thou dost not heed my plaintive strain, 



For thus the fair bird sang ; 

 I have flown in my haste o'er the stormy main, 



From groves where my music rang. 



Where my music rang, when the glow-worm's light 



Glimmer'd oft in the darkling glen, 

 And no sounds were heard 'mid the stilly night, 



From the homes, or the haunts of men. 



Save from one, who fear'd not the dew nor the damp, 



Who told me his true love tale, 

 As he linger'd alone, by the glow-worm's lamp, 



In the depth of the hawthorn dale. 



Methinks e'en now, o'er the dewy grass, 



All alone on the moonlit plain, 

 Will his constant step, 'mid the dim light pass, 



To list for my answering strain. 



And that answering strain the young knight heard, 



As he stole from his castle hall, 

 For the lady breathed low to the faithful bird, 



Words of love from her distant thrall. 



Thus sung the troubadour, and the maiden longed to see 

 again the wide downs on which her young eyes had gazed, 

 for she knew not the thraldom that awaited a rich heiress 

 in those days of feudal tyranny. The book of Lacock 

 is silent with regard to the means by which the trou- 

 badour contrived to bear her off, concerning her perils 

 by sea or land, or her joyous meeting with her widowed 



