Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, That night of love, when first we met, You have forgotten, Geraldine-- I never dreamed you would forget. The Moated Manse I. And now once more we stood within the walls Of her old manor near the riverside; Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls, And here and there the ivy could not hide The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls, Around the doorway, where so many died In that last effort to defend the stair, When Rupert, like a demon, entered there. II. The basest Cavalier who yet wore spurs Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave; And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and brave!-- Brave?--who would question it! although 't is true He warred with one weak woman and her few. III. Lady Isolda of the Moated Manse, Whom here, that very noon, it happened me To meet near her old home. A single glance Told me 't was she. I marveled much to see How lovely still she was! as fair, perchance, As when Red Rupert thrust her brutally,-- Her long hair loosened,--down the shattered stair, And cast her, shrieking, 'mid his followers there. IV. "She is for you! Take her! I promised it! She is for you!"--he shouted, as he flung Her in their midst. Then, on her poor hands (split, And beaten by his dagger when she clung Resisting him) and knees, she crept a bit Nearer his feet and begged for death. No tongue Can tell the way he turned from her and cursed, Then bade his men draw lots for which were first. V. I saw it all from that low parapet, Where, bullet-wounded in the hip and head, I lay face-upward in the whispering wet, Exhausted 'mid the dead and left for dead. We had held out two days without a let Against these bandits. You could trace with red, From room to room, how we resisted hard Since the great door crashed in to their petard. VI. The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain And saw her lying there, all soiled and splashed And miserable; on her cheek a stain, A dull red bruise, made when his hand had dashed Her down upon the stones; the wretched rain Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.-- Oh, for a musket or a petronel With which to send his devil's soul to hell! VII. But helpless there I lay, no weapon near, Only the useless sword I could not reach His traitor's heart with, while I chafed to hear The laugh, the insult and the villain speech Of him to her. Oh, God! could I but clear The height between and, hanging like a leech, My fingers at his throat, there tear his base Vile tongue out, yea, and lash it in his face! VIII.