(A Tale of Flodden Field) Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone: The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loophole grates, where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky, Seemed forms of giant height: Their armour, as it caught the rays, Flashed back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light. Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Save this, that she was young and fair; As yet a novice unprofessed, Lovely and gentle, but distressed. She was betrothed to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonoured fled. Her kinsmen bid her give her hand To one who loved her for her land: Herself, almost heart-broken now, Was bent to take the vestal vow, And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom, Her blasted hopes and withered bloom. Lovely, and gentle, and distressed- These charms might tame ...
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