"'How thus can Memory, in its flight, On wings of gossamer alight, Nor showing aim, nor leaving trace, From a poor damsel's living face To features of a brave, dead knight! In eyes so young, and so benign, What is it speaks of Palestine? Of toils in early life I prov'd, And of a comrade dearly lov'd! 'Tis true, he, like this maid, was young, And gifted with a tuneful tongue! His looks [Errata: locks], like her's, were bright and fair, But light and laughing was his eye; The prophecy of future care In those thin, helmet lids we spy, Veiling mild orbs, of changeful hue, Where auburn half subsides in blue! Lord Fauconberg, canst thou divine What is the curve, or what the line, That makes this girl, like lightning, send Looks of our long lamented friend? If Richard liv'd, that sorcery spell Quickly his lion-heart would quell: He never could her glance descry, And any wish'd-for boon deny! She's weeping too!--most strangely wrought By workings of another's thought! She knows no English; yet I speak That language, and her paling cheek With watery floods is overcast.-- Fair maid, we talk of times long past; A friend we often mourn in vain-- A knight in distant battle slain, Whose bones had moulder'd in the earth Full many a year before thy birth. He fed our ears with songs of old, And one was of a heart of gold,-- A native ditty I would fain, But never yet could hear again. It spoke of friendship like his own, Once only in existence known. My prime of life the blessing crost, And with it life's first charm I lost!' "'Chieftain, allow me, on my knee To sing that English song to thee! For then I never dare to stand, Nor take the harp within my hand; Sacred it also is to me! And it should please thy fancy well, Since dear the lips from whence it fell; 'And dear the language which conveys The only theme of real praise! O! if in very truth thou art A mourner for that loyal heart, A lowly minstrel maid forgive, Who strives to make remembrance live!' SONG. "'Betimes my heritage was sold To buy this heart of solid gold. Ye all, perchance, have jewels fine, But what are such compar'd to mine? O! they are formal, poor, and cold, And out of fashion when they're old;-- But this is of unchanging ore, And every day is valued more. Not all the eye could e'er behold Should purchase back this heart of gold. "'How oft its temper has been tried! Its noble nature purified! And still it from the furnace came Uninjur'd by the subtil flame. Like truth itself, pale, simple, pure, Yielding, yet fitted to endure,-- No rust, no tarnish can arise, To hide its lustre from our eyes; And this world's choicest gift I hold, While I can keep my heart of gold.