 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
XXVI.
He rush'd impatient through the halls of state,No tidings there; the halls were desolate.
218
His word was “tidings of the minstrel Moor”;
His purse was to the bowing menials flung,
Yet “to his boons to come, its weight were poor:
Lived there the man who could but name her name?”
None knew it, where she went, nor whence she came.
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |