And there are tales of sad reality
In the dark legends of thy border war,
With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude’s are.
But where are they, the beings of the mind,
The bard’s creations, moulded not of clay,
Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned,—
Young Gertrude, Albert, Waldegrave,—where are they?
We need not ask. The people of to-day
Appear good, honest, quiet men enough,
And hospitable too,—for ready pay;