Page:Enoch Arden, etc - Tennyson - 1864.djvu/70

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54
AYLMER’S FIELD.
And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's,With wounded peace which each had prick'd to death.'Not proven' Averill said, or laughingly'Some other race of Averills'—prov'n or no,What cared he? what, if other or the same?He lean'd not on his fathers but himself.But Leolin, his brother, living oftWith Averill, and a year or two beforeCall'd to the bar, but ever call'd awayBy one low voice to one dear neighbourhood,Would often, in his walks with Edith, claimA distant kinship to the gracious bloodThat shook the heart of Edith hearing him.
 Sanguine he was: a but less vivid hueThan of that islet in the chestnut-bloomFlamed his cheek; and eager eyes, that stillTook joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd,Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold,Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers.
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