Where is the Maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Trierman? She must be lovely, and constant, and kind, Holy and pure, and humble of mind, Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood, Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood-- Lovely as the sun's first ray When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Constant and true as the widow'd dove, Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; Pure as the fountain in rocky cave, Where never sunbeam kissed the wave; Humble as maiden that loves in vain, Holy as hermit's vesper strain; Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies, Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet; Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain. Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep. He had been pricking against the Scot, The foray was long and the skirmish hot; His dinted helm and his buckler's plight Bore token of a stubborn fight. All in the castle must hold them still, Harpers must lull him to his rest, With the slow soft tunes he loves the best, Till sleep sink down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill. It was the dawn of an autumn day, The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray, That like a silvery crape was spread Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, And faintly gleamed each painted pane Of the lordly halls of Triermain, When that Baron bold awoke. Starting he woke, and loudly did call, Rousing his menials in bower and hall, While hastily he spoke. "Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call To an expiring saint? And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, And her graceful step and her angel air, And the eagle-plume in her dark-brown hair, That pass'd from my bower e'en now!"