Fairer than mind had pictured, brain had dreamed. She sat upon a golden seat, alone, In priceless robes; upon her head a crown, Well worth a county: there, row over row, Full many a sapphire shone with richest glow, And many a pearl and many a gem beside Glittered therein the gold beneath to hide. Her robe was broidered: three long years and more Toiled on it he who wrought it; and thrown o’er A costly mantle lay: from far ’twas brought In some sweet isle beyond the ocean wrought. Full seven years a Moslem lady bent Above her loom, and still her labour spent, While slowly grew the robe; for buckle light, A rich carbuncle glowed, which day and night Shone like the sun of heaven clear and bright. * * * * * And when Lord Baldwin saw this damsel fair, So mazed he was, he nearly fainted there. “Baldwin,” said Poliban, “look not so pale, If ’tis for doubt or fear your spirits fail.” “Nay,” said Lord Baldwin, “but a sudden pain, Yet see I what would make me well again.” Then the Prince led them all, these nobles three, And to his daughter brought them courteously. “Fair daughter,” said he, “is there none of these, Great princes all and brave, that can you please?” “Yea, sire,” the maid replied, “I see my lord, The noblest knight is he who wears a sword. These ten long years I sit, and hope, and wait, For him, my husband, promised me by fate. Now leaps my heart: the weary time is past, My knight, my liege, my lord, is come at last.” When Baldwin heard these words, joy and surprise Held all his heart; but then, across his eyes, Fell on him a sudden cloud of doubt, and fear Ran through his chilled brain lest those praises dear For a companion, not himself, were told. And, for he could not silence longer hold, For all the gold of Europe. “Can it be,” He asked the maid, “that you have chosen me?” She smiled upon him, “Baldwin, be my knight.” “By heaven,” he cried, “mine is this jewel so bright.” But then the Prince, her sire—who liked not well, That on the poorest lord her favour fell— Angry and wrath, cried, “Foolish daughter, know, Your idle words like running water flow, And matter nothing, until I have willed.” “Father,” cried Ivorine, “I am your child; And yet, alas! through my words must you die. Yes; for know well that God who dwells on high Hates those who own him not: and so hates you. That lying demon whom you hold for true, And so teach others, has deceived your heart. But as for me, ah! let me take my part With those who trust in Christ, and place my faith In that sweet pardon won us by his death. Father, renounce thy superstitions vain;