Walking apart, she thinks none listen;
And now she carols, and now she stops;
And the evening star begins to glisten
Atween the lines of blossoming hops.
Sweetest Mercy, your mother taught you
All uses and cares that to maids belong;
Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you —
She did not teach you that tender song —
“The lady sang in her charmèd bower,
Sheltered and safe under roses blown —
‘ Storm cannot touch me, hail, nor shower,
Where all alone I sit, all alone.
“My bower! The fair Fay twined it round me,
Care nor trouble can pierce it through;
But once a sigh from the warm world found me
Between two leaves that were bent with dew.
“And day to night, and night to morrow,
Though soft as slumber the long hours wore,
I looked for my dower of love, of sorrow —
Is there no more — no more — no more?’
“Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly
To walk in shadow, nor chide her part;
Give her the rose, and truly, truly —
To wear its thorn with a patient heart —
“Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth
Chequered and faint on her charmèd floor;
The lady singeth, the lady sigheth —
‘ Is there no more — no more — no more!’”