Yet struggling for the shore. Was she not bound?
Did not his plighted future, like a wall,
Jut ’cross the stream? They feared themselves, and rose,
And through the forest gained the mansion-close
Unmissed, and parted thus, nor met anew;
For on the morrow, when the Prince took horse,
The lady feigned an illness, or ’twas true,—
Yet maybe from her oriel marked his course,
Watching his plume, that into distance past,
Like some dear sail which sinks from sight at last.