Do tears bedim that lady's eye?
Below stands the knight who her favour wears,
But be mounts not the turret to dry her tears;
He springs on his charger--"Farewell;--he is gone,
And the lady is left in her turret alone.
"Ply the distaff, my maids--ply the distaff--before
It is spun, he may happen to stand at the door."

There was never an eye than that lady's more bright,--
Why speeds then away her favour'd knight?
The couch which her white fingers broider'd so fair,
Were a far softer seat than the saddle of war;
What's more tempting than love? In the patriot's sight
The battle of freedom he hastens to fight;
"Ply the distaff, my maids--ply the distaff--before
It is spun, he may happen to stand at the door."

The fair lady looks out from her lattice, but now
Her eye is as bright as her fair shining brow:
And is sorrow so fleeting?--Love's tears--dry they fast?
The stronger is love, is't the less sure to last?
Whose arm sees her knight round her waist?--'Tis his own;
By the battle she wept for, her lover is won;
"Ply the distaff, my maids, ply the distaff no more;
Would you spin when already he stands at the door?"

_Monthly Magazine._

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