And one came, but not Tristram; from a head
Of six short summers hung the dark moist curls,
Lookt forth in glee the innocent hazel eyes
Of Berta, the Queen's daughter. Hot with play,
Breathing short sighs, on tireless little feet
Down the long sounding hall she came, and saw
The chalice, and, on tiptoe rais'd, to touch
Her nose to the slab, and tiny hand uprear'd,
She pull'd near, overspilt half, and half drank
O' the blood-red venom, and past out again.
But flitting thro' shady paths - now plucking flowers,
Now trying to grasp a branch, and grasping air,
Dabbling a chubby hand i' the fount, to lose
Her blossoms - sudden stricken, she swooned and fell.
They found and bare her home: and in whose arms
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