That in the King’s own garden grows;
And when I place it in my hair,
Allan, a bard is bound to swear
He ne’er saw coronet so fair.”
Then playfully the chaplet wild
She wreath’d in her dark locks, and smiled.
X.
Her smile, her speech, with winning sway,
Wiled[98] the old Harper’s mood away.
With such a look as hermits throw,