He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate,
He met with one to whom he named the maid,
Inquiring of her welfare and her state.
And of the matron in whose house she stayed.
"The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said;
"But, for the ancient lady,--she was dead."
He further said, she was but little known,
Although reputed to be very fair,
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone)
But with her nurse at stated morning prayer;
So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall,
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall.
Flow softly, rhymes--his hand is on the door;
Ring out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming--
"He went out rich, but he returneth poor;"
And strong--now something bowed with suffering.
And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines,
Earned in the fight with pirate Algerines.
Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call;
Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise,
And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall;
"What! come at last to bless my lady's eyes!
Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid--
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade.
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