Fall'n from its throne on her whiter brow,
And her fair, rich tresses, like floods of gold,
Gleam on the floor so damp and cold.
Her cheek is pale, but her eye of blue
Now wears a bright and more glorious hue;
It tells of a maiden's constancy,
Of her faith in the hour of adversity;
On a pallet of straw in that gloomy cell,
Is a captive knight whom she loves so well,
That she's left her joyous and splendid bower