He bore an azure pennant 'neath the iron of his spear,
To show that lovers oft go wrong deceived by jealous fear.
The hood he wore was wrought of gold and silk of crimson clear;
His bonnet crest was a heron plume with an emerald stone beneath;
And under all a motto ran, "Too long a hope is death."
He started forth in such array, but armed from head to heel
With tempered blade and dagger and coat of twisted steel.
And hangling low at his saddle-bow was the helmet for his head;
And as he journeyed on his way the warrior sighed and said:
"O Felisarda, dearest maid, him in thy memory keep
Who in his soul has writ thy name in letters dark and deep.
Think that for thee in coat of mail he ever rides afield,
In his right hand the spear must stand, his left must grasp the shield.
And he must skirmish in the plain and broil of battle brave,
And wounded be, for weapons ne'er from jealousy can save."
And as he spoke the lonely Moor from out his mantle's fold
With many a sigh, that scorched the air, a lettered page unrolled.
He tried in vain to read it but his eyes with tears were blind,
And mantling clouds of sorrow hid the letters from his mind.
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