THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE.

The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy,

That ever master had.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

A KNIGHT of gallant deeds,

And a young page at his side

From the holy war in Palestine,

Did slow and thoughtful ride,

As each were a palmer, and told for beads,
The dews of the eventide.

"O young page," said the knight,

"A noble page art thou!

Thou fearest not to steep in blood

The curls upon thy brow;

And once in the tent, and twice in the fight,

Didst ward me a mortal blow

"O brave knight,” said the page,

"Or ere we hither came,

We talked in tent, we talked in field,

Of the bloody battle-game :

But here, below this greenwood bough,

I cannot speak the same.

"Our troop is far behind,

The woodland calm is new;

Our steads, with slow grass-muffled hoofs,
Tread deep the shadows through :

And in my mind, some blessing kind
Is dropping with the dew.

"The woodland calm is pure—

I cannot choose but have

A thought, from these, o' the beechen-trees Which, in our England, wave;

And of the little finches fine,

Which sang there, while in Palestine

The warrior-hilt we drave.

“Methinks, a moment gone,

I heard my mother pray!

I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me

Wherein she passed away;

And I know the Heavens are leaning down. To hear what I shall say."

The page spake calm and high
As of no mean degree;
Perhaps he felt in nature's broad

Full heart, his own was free!

And the knight looked up to his lifted eye, Then answered smilingly :—

"Sir Page, I pray your grace !

Certes, I meant not so

To cross your pastoral mood, sir page,
With the crook of the battle-bow ;

But a knight may speak of a lady's face,

I trow, in any mood or place,

Or, speak she fair, or prank she gay,
She is no lady of mine.

"And this, I meant to fear,

Her bower may suit thee ill!

For, sooth, in that same field and tent,
Thy talk was somewhat still;

And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear,
Than thy tongue for my lady's will.”

Slowly and thankfully

The young page bowed his head:

His large eyes seemed to muse a smile, Until he blushed instead ;

And no lady in her bower pardiè,

Could blush more sudden red—

"Sir Knight, thy lady's bower to me, Is suited well," he said.