II.
No more the charger paws the ground,
Nor snuffs the fresh’ning air,
No more the faithful vassals round,
Impatient for the bugle sound,
Await—their lord is there.
He gave his pennon to the gale,
His bugle echo’d far,
O’er distant forest, plain and dale,
The fearful notes of war.
Then spurr’d their furious steeds amain,
And soon they cross the lengthen’d plain.
But, lo! from yonder lofty tower,
The ladye keeps her lonely watch,
And there has spent a long, long hour,
Spying her lord thro’ plain and bower,
Wherever she a sight can catch.
And now, in the blue distance far,
The pennon fades away;
Or, like some ling’ring, morning star,
That shines with doubtful ray,
’Tis now in view, now lost to sight,
As slowly wanes the yielding night.
Their gleaming helms and waving crests,
Their spear-heads tipp’d with silv’ry light,
Their flashing shields and steel-clad breasts,
That sparkle with a sheen so bright,
Grow faint and fainter to the sight.