IT trembled on the grass With a low, shadowy laughter; And moon and star though bright and far Did shrink and darken after. "High lord thy father is! But better loveth he His ancient halls than his hundred friends, His ancient halls, than thee, Margret, Margret." XXI. The lady did not heed That the far stars did fail; Still calm her smile, albeit the while ... Nay, but she is not pale! "I have more than a friend Across the mountains dim: No other's voice is soft to me, Unless it nameth _him_." Margret, Margret. XXII. "Though louder beats my heart, I know his tread again, And his fair plume aye, unless turned away, For the tears do blind me then: We brake no gold, a sign Of stronger faith to be, But I wear his last look in my soul, Which said, _I love but thee!_" Margret, Margret. XXIII. IT trembled on the grass With a low, shadowy laughter; And the wind did toll, as a passing soul Were sped by church-bell after; And shadows, 'stead of light, Fell from the stars above, In flakes of darkness on her face Still bright with trusting love. Margret, Margret. XXIV. "He _loved_ but only thee! _That_ love is transient too. The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still I' the mouth that vowed thee true: Will he open his dull eyes When tears fall on his brow? Behold, the death-worm to his heart Is a nearer thing than _thou_, Margret, Margret." XXV. Her face was on the ground-- None saw the agony; But the men at sea did that night agree They heard a drowning cry: And when the morning brake, Fast rolled the river's tide, With the green trees waving overhead And a white corse laid beside. Margret, Margret. XXVI. A knight's bloodhound and he The funeral watch did keep; With a thought o' the chase he stroked its face As it howled to see him weep. A fair child kissed the dead, But shrank before its cold. And alone yet proudly in his hall Did stand a baron old. Margret, Margret. XXVII. Hang up my harp again! I have no voice for song. Not song but wail, and mourners pale, Not bards, to love belong. O failing human love! O light, by darkness known! O false, the while thou treadest earth! O deaf beneath the stone! Margret, Margret. _ISOBEL'S CHILD._ ----so find we profit, By losing of our prayers. SHAKESPEARE. I.