| Tripped the beautiful Princess down the stairs of stone |
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| Above the fire-place, where great red logs smoulder |
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| Angrily rose the flood with a mighty murmuring sound |
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| Ay, this is he — the statue rather battered |
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| Now with the sound of that great knight's slow saying |
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| We are led forth amid the mystic moan |
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| But they depart, shy-blushing, backward-glancing |
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| The Ivory Gate |
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| On Windermere |
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| The Organist |
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