The bridal of Vaumond A Metrical Romance |
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The bridal of Vaumond | ||
XVII.
He hath donn'd a cloak of russet brown,A bonnet o'er his dark locks is thrown;
The knight and serf their pathway hold
Where pearly Alcantara roll'd;
Where blithe perennial hues adorn
The fields whence Proserpine was borne;
Where limpid, rush-clad fountains run,
Hid from the glare of the fervent sun,
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In tears, the rape the nymphs beheld;
All pure and shrinkingly they hide
Mid the green surf their lucid tide.
The bridal of Vaumond | ||