Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed The hour of silence and of rest. On the high turret sitting lone, She waked at times the lute's soft tone; Thought of the bower of hawthorns green. For lovers love the western star. XXV. Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, That rises slowly to her ken, And, spreading broad its wavering light, Shakes its loose tresses on the night? Is yon red glare the western star?— O, 'tis the beacon blaze of war! Scarce could she draw her tightened breath, For well she knew the fire of death! XXVI. The Warder viewed it blazing strong, Full many a torch and cresset glared; Like reeds beside a frozen brook. XXVII. The Seneschal, whose silver hair Was reddened by the torches' glare, |