“But see;—what makes this armour here?” For in her path there lay Targe, corslet, helm;—she viewed them near. “The breast-plate pierced!—Ay, much I fear, Weak fence wert thou ’gainst foeman’s spear, That hath made fatal entrance here, As these dark blood-gouts say. Thus, Wilton! Oh! not corslet’s ward, Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, Could be thy manly bosom’s guard, On yon disastrous day!” She raised her eyes in mournful mood— Wilton himself before her stood! It might have seemed his passing ghost, For every youthful grace was lost; And joy unwonted, and surprise, Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. Expect not, noble dames and lords, That I can tell such scene in words: What skilful limner e’er would choose To paint the rainbow’s varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven? Far less can my weak line declare Each changing passion’s shade: Bright’ning to rapture from despair, Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, And joy, with her angelic air, And hope, that paints the future fair, Their varying hues displayed: Each o’er its rival’s ground extending, Alternate conquering, shifting, blending. Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, And mighty Love retains the field. Shortly I tell what then he said, By many a tender word delayed, And modest blush, and bursting sigh, And question kind, and fond reply:— VI. DE WILTON’S HISTORY.