XXX.

O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou! Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the baron’s casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran: Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel’s side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain’s side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn?—behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above some half-worn letters say, “Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray . For . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Gray . Who . built . this . cross . and . well . ” She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion’s head; A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrive the dying, bless the dead.