Tinting to a riper flush The faint vermilion of thy blush; Deepening in thy dark brown hair Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there. For she had scarce seen summers ten, When erst the Hermit's call Sent all true Knights from bower and hall Against the Saracen. Young, motherless, and passing fair, The Dauphin durst not leave her there, Within his castle lone, To kinsman's cold or casual care, Not such as were his own: And so the sweet Provençal maid Shared with her sire the first Crusade. And you may hear her oft, In accents strangely soft. Still singing of the rose's bloom In Sharon,--of the long sunset That gilds lamenting Olivet, Of eglantines that grace the gloom Of sad Gethsemane; And of a young Knight ever seen In evening walks along the green That fringes feeble Siloë. Young, beautiful, and passing fair-- The ancient Dauphin's only heir, The fairest flower of France,-- Knights by sea and Knights by land Came to claim the fair white hand, With sigh and suppliant lance; And many a shield Displayed afield The Lily of Provence. Ladye love of prince and bard Yet to one young Savoyard Swerveless faith she gave-- To the young knight ever seen When moonlight wandered o'er the green That gleams o'er Siloë's wave. And he, blest boy, where lingers he? For the Dauphin hath given slow consent That, after a joyous tournament, The stately spousals shall be. Christine is in her bower That blooms by the swift Isère, Twining a white flower With her dark brown hair. {176} The skies of Provence Are bright with her glance, And nature's matin organ floods The world with music from the myriad throats Of the winged Troubadours, whose joyous notes Brighten the rolling requiem of the woods. With melody, flowers, and light Hath the maiden come to play, As fragile, fair, and bright And lovelier than they? O no, she has come to her bower That blooms by the dark Isère For the bridegroom who named the first hour Of day-dawn to meet her there: But the bridal morn on the hills is born And the bridegroom is not here. Hie thee hither, Savoyard, On such an errand youth rides hard. Never knight so dutiful Maiden failed so beautiful: And she in such sweet need, And he so bold and true!-- She will watch by the long green avenue Till it quakes to the tramp of his steed; Till it echoes the neigh of the gallant Grey Spurred to the top of his speed.