V.

Not long the chance removed, not long the arm Of withering conquest left the test untried; To sabred villains an unrifled charm Were like a stigma to inhuman pride. A gentle sister clung to Blanca’s side One sweet May eve when fills the clustering vine; And ’neath the trellised porch embowering wide, As forth their footsteps strayed from Home’s sweet shrine, Two bearded French hussars forbade them pass its line.