“For, by the Holy Cross, I swear,”—
And straight a cross of ruby glare
Did through the wicket enter!
And now a snowy hand was seen
Slow moving, round the chamber!
A clasp of pearl, it seem’d to bear—
A clasp of pearl, most rich and rare!
Fix’d to a zone of amber.
And now the lowly Hovel shook,
The wicket open flying,