The waning Moon, with livid glare,
Was down the dark sky stealing.
They led him in, they bath’d his wounds,
Tears, to the red stream adding:
The haughty Golfre gaz’d, admir’d!
The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d,
And set his senses, madding!
He prest her hand; she turn’d away,
Her blushes deeper glowing,
Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears;