THERE CAME FROM THE WARS ON A JET BLACK
STEED.
I
There came from the wars on a jet black steed,
A Knight with a snowy plume:
He flew o'er the heath like a captive freed
From a dungeon's dreary gloom.
II
And gaily he rode to his lordly home,—
But the towers were dark and dim;
And he heard no reply, when he called for some
Who were dearer than life to him.
III
The gate which was hurled from its ancient place
Lay mould'ring on the bare ground,
And the Knight rushed in, but saw not a trace
Of a friend, as he gazed around!
IV
He flew to the grove, where his mistress's lute
Had charmed him with love's sweet tone:
But 'twas desolate now, and the strings were mute,
And she he adored was gone.
V
The wreaths were all dead in Rosalie's bower,
And Rosalie's dove was lost;
And the winter's wind had withered each flower
On the myrtle she valued most.
VI
But a cypress grew where the myrtle's bloom
Once scented the morning air;
And under its shade was a marble tomb,
And Rosalie's name was there!
