But ope'd the door,

And, scowling, said—"No Saxon churl shall make

Rowena wife; and dare he woo her more,

 

 

 Sir Harold Spurned. 

 To sue and lose, his knightly soul might bear; But insult galled him sore. Should he imbrue His puissant sword in her own father's gore? That were to do a deed he e'er must rue; Unfit it for a place in his Walhalla there. 

To sue and lose, his knightly soul might bear;

But insult galled him sore.

Should he imbrue

His puissant sword in her own father's gore?

That were to do a deed he e'er must rue;

 No, better far to don the holy cross, As valiant knight became; Then if he fell, He would at least have saved his honoured name; Could say with life's last flitting breath—"'Tis well, For so to live or die, to me were gain, not loss." 

No, better far to don the holy cross,

As valiant knight became;

Then if he fell,

He would at least have saved his honoured name;

Could say with life's last flitting breath—"'Tis well,

 Yet spite of all, one parting word and kiss, From dear Rowena's lips.— May be the last! God knows. That when his life felt death's eclipse, Her angel-presence would its brightness cast And dissipate its gloom. O thus to die were bliss! 

Yet spite of all, one parting word and kiss,

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