Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood,
That thou mightst give it to Etheline,
As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine."


IV.

All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere,
The ancient elms seem withered and bare,
The river asleep in its rushy bed,
The waters are green, and the grass is red,
The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers,
Where oft in the dewy evening hours,
Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell,
And the merle was singing her day-farewell,
The Lady Etheline would recline
And think of her dear Sir Peregrine:
All was cheerless now, forlorn,
As if they missed her at early morn;
At noontide and at evening fall
They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all.

In the solary, up in the western wing,
The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing
For one so young, so gentle, and fair,
Their only child, lying ailing there,
Waning and waning slowly away,
Yet waxing more beautiful every day,
As if she were drawing from spheres above,
Before she got there, the spirit of love,