Before the cheering gale.
And on my first Sir Florice stood,
As the far shore faded now,
And looked upon the lengthening flood
With a pale and pensive brow.
‘When I shall bear thy silken glove
Where the proudest Moslems flee,
My ladye-love, my ladye-love,
Oh, waste one thought on me!’
“Sir Florice lay in a dungeon-cell,