Classic Poem

Hail to thee, fair noble lady!
Much I marvel who art thou,
With thy bright eye clear and steady,
And thy broad resplendent brow!

Well becomes the Spanish bonnet
Those dark locks that woo the wind,
And the plume that flutters on it
Is not freer than thy mind.

Ruthven's lady, — saith it rightly?
Scotland owns the ancient name;
Many a knight that bore him knightly,
Many a bright and beauteous dame.

Yet, methinks, those haughty glances,
Suit not our degenerate days;
Knights no longer splinter lances,
Bards no longer sing their praise:

Trumpets hushed and folded banners,
Mammon's stamp on beauty's brow,
Feeble men and selfish manners, —
These things suit not such as thou!

Would I knew her lofty story;
How she loved, and how she died;
Sure I am 'twas one of glory,
Sure I am 'twas one of pride.

For the soul on every feature,
Looks so high and so serene,
Say thou wast a glorious creature,
Wheresoe'er thy lot has been.