Meanwhile, sweeps on a knightly man,
    Upon his gallant steed,
  And reaches, guided by the path,
    The castle bridge, with speed.

  There deeply sank into his heart,
    The plaint of the ladye,
  He deems she pleads to him for help,
    And will her saviour be.

  Full of impatience and desire,
    His glowing eyes ranged round,
  Till high, within the window, they
    The lovely lady found.

  “Ah! lady, speak, why mournest thou? 
    Confide thy grief to me,
  And to thy cause this sword, this arm,
   This life, devoted be!”

  “Ah! noble knight, nor sword, nor arm
    I need, right well I wot,
  But comfort for my sorrowing heart. 
    And, ah, that thou hast not!”

  “Let me partake thy saddening woe. 
    That will divide thy grief. 
  My tear of pity will bestow
    Both comfort and relief.”

  “Thou good kind youth, then hear my tale;
    An orphan I, sir knight,
  And with my parents did expire
    My peace and my delight

  An uncle and an aunt are now
    To me in parents’ stead,
  Who wound my heart, (God pardon it!)
    As if they wished me dead.

  My father was a wealthy Count: 
    The inheritance now mine—­
  Would I were poor! this wretched wealth
    ’Tis makes me to repine.

  My uncle thirsteth, day and night,
    For my possessions rare,
  And therefore shuts me in this tower. 
    Hard-hearted and severe.

  Here shall I bide, he threatens, choose
    I not, in three days, whether
  I wed his son, or leave the world. 
    For a cloister, altogether.

  How quickly might the choice be made. 
    And I the veil assume,
  Ah, had my youthful heart not loved
    A youth in beauty’s bloom.

  The youngest at the tournament,
    I saw him, and I loved,
  So free, so noble, and so bold—­
    No one like him approved!”

  “Be, noble lady, of good cheer. 
    No cloister shalt thou see,
  Far less of that bad cruel man
    The daughter ever be.

  I can, I will deliver thee,
    I have resolved it too,
  To yield thee to thy youngling’s arms. 
    As I am a Stolberg true!”

  “Thou?  Stolberg?  O my grief is gone! 
    Mine angel led thee, sure;
  Thou art the dear, dear youth for whom
    These sorrows I endure.

  Now say I free and openly,
    What then my looks confest,
  When I, my love, thy earliest lance
    With oaken garland drest.”

  “O God! thou? my beloved child,
    Eliza Mansfield Dove,
  I loved thee, too, with the first look,
    As none did ever love.

  See on my lance the garland yet,
    It ever carries there;
  O could’st thou see thy image too,
    Imprinted deeply here!

  And now, why loiter we?  Ere shine
    The sun, I’ll bring thee home,
  And nothing more shall our chaste loves
    Divide, whatever come.”