From lingering pains, or pang intense, Red Fever, spotted Pestilence, The arrows of thy quiver! Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway, Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form, With sentient soul of hate and wrath, Or art thou mixed in Nature's source, Converting good to ill; Or spring such a gulf as divides her from thee, Must dare some high deed, by which all men may see His ambition is backed by his hie chivalrie. 'Therefore thus speaks my lady,' the fair page he said, And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head: 'Fling aside the good armor in which thou art clad, And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead, For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread: And charge thus attired, in the tournament dread, And fight, as thy wont is, where most blood is shed, And bring honor away, or remain with the dead.' Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast, The knight the weed hath taken, and reverently hath kissed: 'Now blessed be the moment, the messenger be blest! Much honored do I hold me in my lady's high behest; And say unto my lady, in this dear nightweed dressed, To the best armed champion I will not veil Oh, many a knight there fought bravely and well, Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, And 't was he whose sole armor on body and Seemed the weed of a damsel when bound breast for her rest. One hour with thee! When burning June One hour with thee! When sun is set, IV One hour with thee! LINES TO SIR CUTHBERT Lockhart, in Chapter lxxv. of the Lif writes: Sir Cuthbert Sharp, who had been particularly kind and attentive to Scott when at Sunderland, happened, in writing to him on |