How well I remember the tranquil hours We spent in the haunted wood; How fair was the glade and the primrose flowers Where the ruined abbey stood, For there, near the lake where water springs-- It gushed in a crystal stream-- From the mouth of a dragon with carven wings And eyes of a fearful gleam. And there was the grotto, with walls inlet With shells from the shining sands, And the floor with mosaic scenes was set, All relics from Eastern lands. We played, and we idly wondered who In the centuries past and gone Had chiselled the antique shape so true Of this monster in sculptured stone. And the legend weird of this ancient pile We many a time had heard, And oft in the dusk we would list, the while The leaves by the wind were stirred. For ages and ages ago ’twas said A prince of the Saxon blood With the Lady Osyth one day was wed By a priest of the holy rood. He bade adieu at the altar there, But alas, for the vows they made, A rival prince took his bride so fair By force to the forest shade. She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil, And a nun she had scarce been made, When up to the abbey, in coat of mail, Rode the prince with a gleaming blade. And with sword held high he espied the face Of his wife in a window near, A moment more, in his fast embrace Swooned the lady in deadly fear. And fast on his palfrey they rode away These twain through the woodland deep, And saw not the rival till brought to bay Near the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.” And the enemy’s knights came and bore them on And round to the moonlit lake And jeered: “So perish each wicked one Who is false to the vows they make.” The prince they bound to his steed and led The lady whose every limb Trembled, while faltering prayers she said And her glorious eyes grew dim. Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s side When with swift and sudden blow The rapier fell, and her life’s red tide Welled o’er to the stream below. And the legend runs that the headless form Of the maiden quickly bent And lifted her head beneath her arm While a shriek the wild echoes rent. And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate, Unbuckled his heavy mail, And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate, He died with a mournful wail. And the story goes that the lady’s shade Still walks, and her voice is heard, When the moon is old in the haunted glade-- Like the cry of a wounded bird-- And the headless image in marble chased Of this saint in the chancel old Still stands, though time hath its lines effaced And despoiled it of beauty’s mould. And oft as I think of the woodland fair And the legend, I fain would be Once more near the dragon which standeth where St.