And as she pass'd each cottage door,
They did their gambols cease;
And old men shook their locks so hoar,
And wish'd her spirit peace.
For sometimes slow; and sometimes fast,
She held her wav'ring pace;
Like early spring's inconstant blast,
That ruffles evening's face.
At length with weary feet she came,
Where in a shelt'ring wood,
Whose master bore no humble name,
A stately castle stood.
The open gate, and smoking fires,
Which cloud the air so thin;
And shrill bell tinkling from the spires,
Bespoke a feast within.
With busy looks, and hasty tread,
The servants cross the hall;
And many a page, in buskins red,
Await the master's call.
Fair streaming bows of bridal white
On ev'ry shoulder play'd;
And clean, in lily kerchief dight,
Trip'd every houshold maid.
She ask'd for neither lord nor dame,
Nor who the mansion own'd;
But straight into the hall she came,
And sat her on the ground.
The busy crew all crouded nigh,
And round the stranger star'd;
But still she roll'd her wand'ring eye,
Nor for their questions car'd.
"What dost thou want, thou storm-beat' maid,
That thou these portals past?
Ill suiteth here thy looks dismay'd,
Thou art no bidden guest."
"O chide not!" said a gentle page,
And wip'd his tear-wet cheek,
"Who would not shun the winter's rage?
The wind is cold and bleak.