While thro' her marble a blush did gleam,
Like ruddy berries, all crushed in cream.
The minstrel to the castle hied,
His mother's hope, his mother's pride.
Gramercy, how that mother cried!
He was a gentle man of thought,
And grave, but not ungracious aught.
His face with thinking lines was wrought.
And though his head was bald a space,
Than he who shore it will get grace.