Page:The Keepsake for 1838.djvu/77

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45

AZEL

Gentle stranger, prithee say,Why is all this proud arrayOf pennon, tent, and listed course,Of armed knight and neighing horse,Of painted shield and burnished spear—Wherefore hold they tourney here?
The joust is for the brightest prizeThat ever dazzled gallant eyes:'Tis Reginald, of Ardavance,That offers to the strongest lanceHis only child—fair Blanche's hand,With many a goodly rood of land.And many a knight of gallant nameIs here, to win, or love, or fame.
Is you the maid?—she's wondrous pale!A form so delicate and frailWould more befit a peaceful bower,With poet's song and moonlight hour,Than thus to sit, 'mid vulgar eyes,Some grisly warrior's battle prize.While others scatter smiles around,Her vacant eye ne'er quits the ground,Save when by fits it sometimes raisesA glance—that marks not where it gazes.So cold, abstracted, sad, and wanA maid, I never looked upon.
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