In maiden-voices quavered, faint and sweet,
And from the chapel-tower, through quivering air,
The bell's clear silver-tinkling clove the heat.
She strode into the hall where yet the King
Sat with his knights; a weary minstrel stirred
Cool, throbbing wood-notes, throated like a bird,
From his soft-stringèd lute. With scornful eyes
Hild looked on them and spake: "Can nothing sting
Your slumberous hearts from slothful peace to rise?
Must only stripling-knights and maidens ride