Whither, but why, you well may guess.
For often he whispered a certain name,
The talisman dear of his happiness,
That warmed his blood like a Yule-log's flame.
While we waited there, till its owner came,
We saw how the castle's baronial girth,
Like a giant's, loosed for revelling more,
Shone; and we heard the wassail and mirth
Where the mistletoe hung in the hearth's red roar,
And the holly brightened the weaponed wall