Now all ye lovers that faithful prove,

       (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

       Pray for their souls who died for love,

       For Love shall still be lord of all!

       XIII

      As ended Albert’s simple lay,

       Arose a bard of loftier port;

       For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay,

       Renown’d in haughty Henry’s court:

       There rung thy harp, unrivall’d long,

       Fitztraver of the silver song!

       The gentle Surrey lov’ed his lyre,

       Who has not heard of Surrey’s fame?

       His was the hero’s soul of fire,

       And his the bard’s immortal name,

       And his was love, exalted high

       By all the glow of chivalry.

       XIV

      They sought, together, climes afar,

       And oft, within some olive grove,

       When even came with twinkling star,

       They sung of Surrey’s absent love

       His step the Italian peasant stay’d,

       And deem’d that spirits from on high,

       Round where some hermit saint was laid,

       Were breathing heavenly melody;

       So sweet did harp and voice combine

       To praise the name of Geraldine.

       XV

      Fitztraver! O what tongue may say

       The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,

       When Surrey, of the deathless lay

       Ungrateful Tudor’s sentence slew?

       Regardless of the tyrant’s frown,

       His harp call’d wrath and vengeance down.

       He left, for Naworth’s iron towers,

       Windsor’s green glades, and courtly bowers

       And faithful to his patron’s name,

       With Howard still Fitztraver came

       Lord William’s foremost favorite he,

       And chief of all his minstrelsy.

       XVI

      Fitztraver

       ‘Twas All-soul’s eve, and Surrey’s heart beat high;

       He heard the midnight bell with anxious start,

       Which told the mystic hour, approaching nigh,

       When wise Cornelius promis’d, by his art,

       To show to him the ladye of his heart

       Albeit betwixt them roar’d the ocean grim

       Yet so the sage had hight to play his part

       That he should see her form in life and limb

       And mark, if still she lov’d,

       And still she thought of him.

       XVII

      Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye,

       To which the wizard led the gallant Knight,

       Save that before a mirror, huge and high,

       A hallow’d taper shed a glimmering light

       On mystic implements of magic might;

       On cross, and character, and talisman,

       And almagest, and altar, nothing bright:

       For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan

       As watchlight by the bed

       Of some departing man.

       XVIII

      But soon, within that mirror huge and high,

       Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam;

       And forms upon its breast the Earl ‘gan spy

       Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream;

       Till, slow arranging, and defin’d, they seem

       To form a lordly and a lofty room,

       Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam,

       Plac’d by a couch of Agra’s silken loom,

       And part by moonshine pale,

       And part was hid in gloom.

       XIX

      Fair all the pageant: but how passing fair

       The slender form which lay on couch of Ind!

       O’er her white bosom stray’d her hazel hair;

       Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pin’d;

       All in her night-robe loose she lay reclin’d,

       And pensive read from tablet eburnine

       Some strain that seem’d her inmost soul to find:

       That favor’d strain was Surrey’s raptur’d line,

       That fair and lovely form,

       The Lady Geraldine.

       XX

      Slow roll’d the clouds upon the lovely form,

       And swept the .goodly vision all away,

       So royal envy roll’d the murky storm

       O’er my beloved Master’s glorious day.

       Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay

       On thee, and on thy children’s latest line,

       The wild caprice of thy despotic sway,

       The gory bridal bed, the plunder’d shrine,

       The murder’d Surrey’s blood,

       The tears of Geraldine!

       XXI

      Both Scots, and Southern chiefs, prolong

       Applauses of Fitztraver’s song;

       These hated Henry’s name as death,

       And those still held the ancient faith.

       Then from his seat, with lofty air,

       Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair;

       St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home,

       Had with that lord to battle come.

       Harold was born where restless seas

       Howl round the storm-swept Orcades;

       Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway

       O’er isle and islet, strait and bay;,