And clipt a lock of her auburn hair,
And yielded it to his ardent prayer;
But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes
Hath fallen upon the golden prize.
"Ah! blessed drop," said the knight, and smiled--
"This tear was from thine heart beguiled,
And I take it to be an omen of good,
For tears, my love, are purified blood,
That impart a beauty to female eyes,
And vouch for her kindly sympathies."
"Ah! no, ah! no," the maid replied--
"An omen of ill," and she heavily sighed;
Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek,
Nor further word could the damoiselle speak.
Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still,
"If tears, my love, are an omen of ill,
The way to deprive them of evil spell
Is to kiss them away, and--all is well!"
And he took in his arms the yielding maid,
And kissed them away, as he had said.

The warder has oped the porteluse again,
To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train.
Loud spoke the horn o'er fell and dell,
"Fare thee--fare thee--fare thee well;"
But Etheline, as she waved her hand,
Could not those flowing tears command,
And thought the bugle in sounds did say,
"Fare thee--fare thee well for aye."