The Baron of Greystoke is laid in the quire. Who is she that sits lone in her mourning attire? Her maids all in silence stand weeping apart: Or but whisper the woe that is big at her heart. From her guardian the King the dread summons has come; And Greystoke's sweet orphan must quit her lone home: With the proudest of Barons to wait on her word-- His domain for her pleasaunce, her safeguard his sword. But what is to her all their homage and state, Since the youthful Lord Dacre may pass not their gate? Even now he forgets her, she thinks in her gloom; And the Cliffords to-morrow will bear her to Brough'm. "With him, O with him," in her sorrow she cried, "With the gallant Lord Dacre to run by my side "In the fields, as of old, with his hand on my rein, "I would give all the wealth the wide world can contain."-- Lord Dacre forget her? No! sooner the might Of Helvellyn shall bend to the storm on its height; He has vow'd--"Let them woo! but in spite of the King "The wide north with her bridal at Dacre shall ring." As the Cliffords rode hard on that morrow to claim The fair ward of the King, by Lord Dacre's they came. And they cast out their words in derision and scorn, As they pass'd by his tower in the prime of the morn. "Shall we greet the bright heiress of Greystock for thee? "Or await thee at Brough'm her rich bridal to see?" --"In our annals," he cried, "we've a story of old, "A fit tale for a bridal, that _twice_ shall be told. "In your Skipton's high hall, in your stateliest room "Of Pendragon, and high through the arches of Brough'm, "Have your bridals been sung, but not one to the lay "That I'll ring through old Brough'm for the bride on that day. "Your meats may be scant, and unbrimm'd the bright bowl; "But the notes of that tale through your fortress shall roll! "Here I pledge me, proud Cliffords! come friend, or come foe, "With that tale of old times to her bridal I'll go!"-- Loud laugh'd they in scorn as hard onward they rode: And the horsemen and horses all gallantly show'd. With bright silver and gold, too, her harness did ring, As they rode back to Brough'm with the Ward of the King. And proud was the welcome, and courtly the grace, And warm was the clasp of that stately embrace, When the Lady of Brough'm took her home to her breast, Like a lamb to the fold, a lone dove to its nest. But in still hours of night, and mid pastimes by day, To the wild woods of Greystoke her heart fled away, To the fields where, as once with _his_ hand on her rein, She would give all the world to ride child-like again. It was night; when the moon through her circle had worn; And back into darkness her crescent was borne; Not in fancy nor dreams came a voice to her side-- "Sweet, awake thee, Lord Dacre is come for his bride."