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Bright rose the morn, and many a ray,
Resplendent from the orb of day,
Did on the gothic casements play,

Of Thrybergh's ancient hall;
And seemed reposing guests away

From downy couch to call.
The landscape dressed in kirtle green,
Presents a sweet and smiling scene.
In every thicket, grove, and brake,
The feathered occupants awake;
And, perching on the slender spray,
Now warble forth their morning lay:

While far along the lowly dells,
In merry peal the music swells,
From village fane's harmonious bells,-

Fit sounds to banish care !
And minstrels venerably grey,
Strike on their harps the joyous lay,
To celebrate the bridal day

Of Thrybergh's lovely heir !


But where is she, for whom arise
These joyous strains and melodies,-

Edwina young and fair ?
Alas! to her the festive board,
Can pleasure nor delight afford,

Whose bosom heaves with care !
Unseen by mortal eye, the maid
Had passed along the neighbouring glade,
To where remote mid darksome wood,
An ancient oak majestic stood,

The growth of ten score years : There seated on a massy stone, Deeply with velvet moss o'ergrown, Edwina, pensive, sad, and lone,

Indulged her flowing tears.


The place to her was doubly dear,
Though sad remembrance brought the tear
Adown her damask cheek ; for here
First did her loved and gallant knight,
To her his faith and honour plight,

Sir Reresby true and brave!
And here, when honour called away
The valorous knight, to join th' array
Of armies, met in deadliest fray,

The broken ring he gave ;-
His plumed helmet then displayed
A silken glove, with gold inlaid,
A token from the sorrowing maid.

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