An Extract from the original MARGARET.
O, SWEET pale Margaret,
O, rare pale Margaret,
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckoo-power?
* * * *
What can it matter, Margaret,
What songs below the waning stars
The lion-heart, Plantagenet,
Sang, looking thro' his prison bars?
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell
The last wild thought of Chatelet,
Just ere the fallen axe did part
The burning brain from the true heart,
Even in her sight he loved so well?
* * * *