“For in your royal brother’s Court Myself my breeding had; Where oft the story of your woes Hath made my bosom sad.
“If so, know your accuser’s dead, And dying owned his crime; And long your Lord hath sought you out Thro’ every foreign clime.
“And when no tidings he could learn Of his much-wronged wife, He vowed thenceforth within his Court To lead a hermit’s life.”
“Now Heaven is kind!” the Lady said; And dropt a joyful tear; “Shall I once more behold my Lord? That Lord I love so dear?”
“But, Madam,” said Sir Valentine, And knelt upon his knee; “Know you the cloak that wrapt your babe, If you the same should see?”
And pulling forth the cloth of gold In which himself was found, The Lady gave a sudden shriek, And fainted on the ground.
But by his pious care revived, His tale she heard anon; And soon by other tokens found He was indeed her son.
“But who’s this hairy youth?” she said; “He much resembles thee; The bear devoured my younger son, Or sure that son were he.”
“Madam, this youth with bears was bred, And reared within their den. But recollect ye any mark To know your son again?”
“Upon his little side,” quoth she, “Was stamped a bloody rose.” “Here, Lady, see the crimson mark Upon his body grows!”
Then clasping both her new-found sons, She bathed their cheeks with tears; And soon towards her brother’s Court Her joyful course she steers.
What pen can paint King Pepin’s joy, His sister thus restored! And soon a messenger was sent To cheer her drooping Lord,
Who came in haste with all his peers, To fetch her home to Greece; Where many happy years they reigned In perfect love and peace.
To them Sir Ursine did succeed, And long the sceptre bare. Sir Valentine he stayed in France, And was his uncle’s heir.
_Attributed in part to Bishop Percy (Done into modern spelling)_
_What Danger is the Pilgrim in? How many are his Foes? How many ways there are to Sin, No living Mortal knows._
_Some of the Ditch shy are, yet can Lie tumbling on the Myre, Some, tho’ they shun the Frying-Pan, Do leap into the Fire._
The good Lord Douglas paced the deck, And oh, his face was wan! Unlike the flush it used to wear When in the battle-van.--
“Come hither, come hither, my trusty Knight, Sir Simon of the Lee; There is a freit lies near my soul I fain would tell to thee.