LVI
At this great Caesar started on his feet,
Lifted his wings, and stood attentivewise.
“Those wings to Canterbury you must beat,
If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize,
Look in the Almanac—Moore never lies—
April the twenty-fourth—this coming day,
Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies,
Will end in St. Mark’s Eve;—you must away,
For on that eve alone can you the maid convey.”