There are dim garden-paths, round that Castle of Pride;
Where the bud of the rose, and the hyacinth blue, [folio 5]
Close their leaves, to the balm, of the moist even-tide.
And long is the alley, dark, bowery, and dim,
Where sits a white form ’neath a tall chestnut tree
Which waves its brown branches, all dark’ling and grim,
O’er the young Rose of Courcy, Sweet Anna Marie.
And who kneels beside her? A warrior in mail.
On his helm there’s a plume In his hand there’s a lance
And why does the cheek of the lady turn pale?