Her gentle hand was a good bow bearing; The deer at speed or the fowl on wing Stayed in their flight, when the bearded arrow Her white hand loosed from the sounding string. Old men made bare their locks, and blest her, As blithe she rode down the Durwood side, Her steed rejoiced in his lovely rider, Arched his neck proudly, and pranced in pride. “This unexpected minstrelsy was soon interrupted by dame Foljambe, whose total devotion to the family of Rutland rendered her averse to hear the story of Dora Vernon’s elopement profaned in the familiar ballad strain of a forgotten minstrel. ‘I wonder at the presumption of that rude minion,’ said the offended portress, ‘in chanting such ungentle strains in my ear. Home to thy milk-pails, idle hussy,——home to thy distaff, foolish maiden; or, if thou wilt sing, come over to my lodge when the sun is down, and I will teach thee a strain of a higher sort, made by a great court lord, on the marriage of her late Grace. It is none of your rustic chants, but full of fine words, both long and lordly; it begins: “Come burn your incense, ye godlike graces, Come, Cupid, dip your darts in light; Unloose her starry zone, chaste Venus, And trim the bride for the bridal night.” “‘None of your vulgar chants, minion, I tell thee; but stuffed with spiced words, and shining with gods and garters and stars and precious stones, and odors thickly dropping; a noble strain indeed.’ The maiden smiled, nodded acquiescence, and, tripping homeward, renewed her homely and interrupted song, till the riverbank and the ancient towers acknowledged, with their sweetest echoes, the native charms of her voice.