She gives her page the blooming rose,
With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!"
"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes,
"By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."
But the page returns, and—oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!—
Leads to that bower another Knight,
As young and, alas, as loved as he!
"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!"
Then, darting forth, with furious bound,
Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,
And strewed it all in fragments round.
MORAL.
Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.
THE PILGRIM.
Still thus, when twilight gleamed,
Far off his Castle seemed,
Traced on the sky;
And still, as fancy bore him.
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye;
And thought his home was nigh.
"Hall of my Sires!" he said,
"How long, with weary tread,
"Must I toil on?
"Each eve, as thus I wander,
"Thy towers seem rising yonder,
"But, scarce hath daylight shone,
"When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"
So went the Pilgrim still,
Down dale and over hill,
Day after day;
That glimpse of home, so cheering,
At twilight still appearing,
But still, with morning's ray,
Melting, like mist, away!
Where rests the Pilgrim now?
Here, by this cypress bough,
Closed his career;
That dream, of fancy's weaving,
No more his steps deceiving,
Alike past hope and fear,
The Pilgrim's home is here.