Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth
The weary couch of pain,
When all thy poppies fail to soothe
The lover's throbbing brain!

'T is morn,--the orange-mantled sun
Breaks through the fading gray,
And long and loud the Castle gun
Peals o'er the glistening bay.

"Thank God 't is day!" With eager eye
He hails the morning shine:--
"If art can win, or gold can buy,
The maiden shall be mine!"



PART THIRD

THE CONQUEST

"Who saw this hussy when she came?
What is the wench, and who?"
They whisper. "Agnes--is her name?
Pray what has she to do?"

The housemaids parley at the gate,
The scullions on the stair,
And in the footmen's grave debate