He came at morn to the lady's bower —
He sang, and played till the noontide hour;
He sang of war—he sang of love,
Of battle-field, and peaceful grove:
The lady could have stayed all day,
To hear that gentle minstrel play;
And when she saw the minstrel go,
The lady's tears began to flow.
At mid-day, with her page she went
To grace a splendid tournament;
And there she saw an armed knight,
With golden helm and plumage white;
With grace he rode his sable steed, —
And after many a martial deed,
He knelt to her with words most sweet,
And laid his trophies at her feet.
At night, in robes both rich and rare,
With jewels sparkling in her hair,
She sought the dance, and smiling came
A youthful prince, and breathed her name;
He sang — it was the minstrel's strain!
He knelt — she saw the knight again?
With lovers three —how blest to find
The charms of all in one combined!