Wyndham Towers. Aldrich Thomas Bailey

           Is nought but scent and bloom.  So unto him

           Griselda’s grace unclosed.  Where lagged his wit

           That guessed not of the bud that slept in stem,

           Nor hint had of the flower within the bud?

           If so much beauty had a tiger been,

           ‘T had eaten him!  In all the wave-washed length

           Of rocky Devon where was found her like

           For excellence of wedded red and white?

           Here on that smooth and sunny field, her cheek,

           The hostile hues of Lancaster and York

           Did meet, and, blending, make a heavenly truce,

           This were indeed a rose a king might wear

           Upon his bosom.  By St. Dunstan, now,

           Himself would wear it.  Then by seeming chance

           Crossed he her walks, and stayed her with discourse

           Devised adroitly; spoke of common things

           At first—of days when his good mother lived,

           If ‘t were to live, to pass long dolorous hours

           Before his father’s effigy in church;

           Of one who then used often come to hall,

           Ever at Yule-tide, when the great log flamed

           In chimney-place, and laugh and jest went round,

           And maidens strayed beneath the mistletoe,

           Making believe not see it, so got kissed—

           Of one that joined not in the morrice-dance,

           But in her sea-green kirtle stood at gaze,

           A timid little creature that was scared

           By dead men’s armor.  Nought there suffered change,

           Those empty shells of valor grew not old,

           Though something rusty.  Would they fright her now

           Looked she upon them?  Held she in her mind—

           ‘T was Spring and loud the mavis piped outside—

           The day the Turkish helmet slipped from peg,

           And clashing on the floor, congealed her blood

           And sent both hands to terror-smitten eyes,

           She trembling, ready to yield up the ghost?

           Right merry was it!  Finally he touched

           On matters nearer, things she had foreboded

           And this one time must needs lend hearing to,

           And end so sorry business ere woe came,

           Like a true maid and honest, as she was.

           So, tutoring the tremble on her lip

           And holding back hot tears, she gave reply

           With such discretion as straight tied his tongue,

           Albeit he lacked not boldness in discourse: