Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying; _Eleu loro There shall he be lying._ Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the falsehearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap Ere life be parted: Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never! _Eleu loro Never, O never!_ _Sir W. Scott_ CCXXXVII _LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI_ 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. 'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.' 'I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. 'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. 'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. 'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said "I love thee true." 'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. 'And there she lulléd me asleep, And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. 'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" 'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapéd wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side. 'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.' _J. Keats_ CCXXXVIII _THE ROVER_ A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green-- No more of me you knew My Love! No more of me you knew.