 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XIV.
“God speed thee, friend,” the knight exclaim'd,“To a merry lay is thy story fram'd,
Yet 'tis a woful tale;”—
“Sir Knight,” he said, “thy courtly ear
Well, at my untaught lay may sneer,—
I sing of my own bale;
Of a lost, vile, abandon'd one—
God rest him yet—he was my son!—
But thine armour is soil'd, and broken, and torn,
Thy face with vigil and toil is worn;
In my humble cot, my lowly fare
Full welcome art thou here to share,
From the fountain head, the sparkling wave
Or the ruby wine, thou there may'st have,—
My goat's milk, pure and white shall flow
As yonder heaven-capt steep of snow—
But poor, alas! for a knight the cheer
Of a lowly, lonely widower.”
| The bridal of Vaumond | |