118 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
The maiden exclaimed—“ Thou see’at, Sii 
Knight, 
Thy fingers of iron can only smite ; 
And, like the rose thou hast torn and scatter’d, 
I in thy grasp should be wreck’d and shatter’d.” 
She trembled and blush’d, and her glances fell; 
But she turn’d from the Knight, and said “ Fare 
well 
“Not so,” he cried, “ will I lose my prize, 
I heed not thy words, but 1 read thine eyes.” 
He lifted her up in his grasp of steel, 
And he mounted and spurr’d with furious heel; 
But her cry drew forth her hoary sire, 
Who snatch’d his bow from above the fire. 
Swift from the valley the warrior fled, 
Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped: 
And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foil 
horse, 
Was the living man, and the woman’s corse. 
That morning the rose was bright of hue : 
That morning the maiden was fair to view: 
But the evening sun its beauty shed 
On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead. 
