XVII.

Old Morgan eyed his men, look'd back Against the groves of tamarack, Then tapp'd his stirrup-foot, and stray'd His hard left hand along the mane Of his strong steed, and careless play'd His fingers through the silken skein, And seemed a time to touch the rein.

And then he spurr'd him to her side, And reach'd his hand and, leaning wide, He smiling push'd her falling hair Back from her brow, and kiss'd her there.

Yea, touch'd her softly, as if she Had been some priceless, tender flower, Yet touch'd her as one taking leave Of his one love in lofty tower Before descending to the sea Of battle on his battle eve.