He is crouching frighten'd—my king and lord!
He whisper'd, and fill'd my heart with dismay,—
Scared by the sounds that used once to rejoice!—
O Harry, my Harry, speak loudly, I pray,
And not in that shocking whispering voice.
He whisper'd, 'I've got in a horrid scrape;
Fetch me some money, and bid me good-bye;
I must run away, and make my escape,'—
'I shall run with you, my darling,' said I.
'You cannot,' he murmur'd;—a speechless love