The other form was that of a very young and slender girl, whose complexion was delicately, almost transparently, fair. Her cheeks were tinted with a rich, soft crimson, her features moulded in the utmost perfection of loveliness; while the clear light of her brilliant hazel eyes, and the soft waving of her auburn ringlets, gave additional charms to what seemed already infinitely too beautiful for this earth. Her dress was a white robe of the finest texture the Indian loom can produce. The only ornaments she wore were a long chain which encircled her neck twice and hung lower than her waist, composed of alternate beads of the finest emeralds and gold; and a slight gold ring on the third finger of her left hand, which, together with a small crescent of pearls glistening on her forehead (which is always worn by the noble matrons of Verdopolis), betokened that she had entered the path of wedded life. With a sweet vivacity in her look and manner the young bride was addressing her lord thus when I first came in sight of the peerless pair: ‘No, no, my lord; if I sing the song you shall choose it. Now, once more, what shall I sing? The moon is risen, and, if your decision is not prompt, I will not sing at all!’ [126] To this he answered: ‘Well, if I am threatened with the entire loss of the pleasure if I defer my choice, I will have that sweet song which I overheard you singing the evening before I left Scotland.’ [3] 3 The last four words in this sentence have been erased from the MS.—C. W. H. With a smiling blush she took a little ivory lyre, and, in a voice of the most touching melody, sang the following stanzas:— He is gone, and all grandeur has fled from the mountain; All beauty departed from stream and from fountain; A dark veil is hung O’er the bright sky of gladness, And, where birds sweetly sung, There’s a murmur of sadness; The wind sings with a warning tone Through many a shadowy tree; I hear, in every passing moan, The voice of destiny. Then, O Lord of the Waters! the Great and All-seeing! Preserve in Thy mercy his safety and being; May he trust in Thy might When the dark storm is howling, And the blackness of night Over Heaven is scowling; But may the sea flow glidingly With gentle summer waves; And silent may all tempests lie Chained in Æolian caves! Yet, though ere he returnest long years will have vanished, Sweet hope from my bosom shall never be banished: I will think of the time When his step, lightly bounding, Shall be heard on the rock Where the cataract is sounding; When the banner of his father’s host Shall be unfurled on high, To welcome back the pride and boast Of England’s chivalry!