Classic Poem

He rush'd impatient through the halls of state,
No tidings there; the halls were desolate.
Yet, while his foot was in the stirrup hung,
His word was " tidings of the minstrel Moor " ;
His purse was to the bowing menials flung,
Yet " to his boons to come, its weight were poor:
Lived there the man who could but name her name? "
None knew it, where she went, nor whence she came.