"
"But tell me, who has so adorn'd
Thy tame and pretty Goat?"--
"Ah! sir", (the white-hair'd shepherd said,)
"It was a lovely fair;
A lady of the sweetest face
That ever eyes could note,
But she was plung'd in darkest depths
Of cruel craz'd despair."
"My Goat her guardian angel prov'd,
As she herself allow'd,
And hence her little neck appears
So brilliant and so brave;
No longer mine, she has a queen,
Of whom she may be proud,
And sure an angel might be proud
So sweet a soul to save."
"But rest, sir, on my humble bench,
And take my simple cheer,
And I will tell you, all you ask,
With hearty frank good will:
A story of no trifling sort,
In truth, you have to hear,
Yet, like the most of mortal scenes,
A mass of good and ill."
"But say, my pleasant, honest friend,"
(The traveller replied,)
"Where is the lovely English fair,
That you so much admire?"--
"Before you hear where now she goes,
(And God be still her guide!)
Her sufferings here let me relate,"
(Rejoin'd the sighing sire.)
"Of all the sufferers I have seen,
She was indeed the prime,
That of a deeply wounded heart,
Most keenly felt the throes:
'Twas agony to see her grief;
And even at this time,
My foolish eyes grow full of tears
In thinking of her woes!"
"No! ne'er shall I forget that eve,
When I beheld her first,
Ah! little thought my dame and I
Such guest with us would dwell;
With pity my old woman's heart
Was even like to burst,
When this sweet lady first implor'd,
A refuge in our cell.
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