III.
In Euphan Barnet's lowly room,
Adown that darksome wynd,
A ladye fair is lying there,
In illness sair declined;
Her cheeks now like the lily pale,
The roses waned away,
Her eyes so bright have lost their light,
Her lips are like the clay.
On her fair breast a missal rests,
Illumed with various dyes,
In which were given far views of heaven
In old transparencies.
There hangs the everlasting cross
Of emerald and of gold,
That cross of Christ so often kissed
When she her beads had told.
Those things are all forgotten now,
Far other thoughts remain;
And as she dreams she ever renes,
"I seek for Ballenden."
Oh Ballenden! oh Ballenden!
Whatever, where'er thou be,
That ladye fair is dying there,
And all for love of thee.