But where would be the golden tresses,
With ribands bravely intertwined
And where the roses, that thy praises
Have opened like a Summer wind,
Wert thou, my love, my Knight, not here,
To make these empty beauties dear?
The Spring would never deck her train
In such a fair and winsome wise
Did she not seek by smiles to chain
The sun her royal lover’s eyes.
_1876._
[Illustration]
May Marian.