Though something, won from the grave's embrace,

Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,
It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,
Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed:-bear back the Dead
Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,
Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight—
A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle
In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,

And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,
With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train,

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,
When they lower'd the dust again.

'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above,

Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who call'd thee strong as death, O Love?

Mightier thou wast and art.

IN the deep hour of dreams,

Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea,

And by the star-light gleams,

Mother of Sorrows! lo, I come to thee.

Unto thy shrine I bear

Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie

All, all unfolded there,

Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move,

In thy still beauty, through an early home,
Thou know'st the grief, the love,

The fear of woman's soul; to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep,

Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;
Thou, too, couldst watch and weep-

Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppress'd!

There is a wandering bark

Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves;
Oh let thy soft eye mark

His course;-be with him, Holiest, guide and save!

"Hast thou been on the field?-Art thou come from the host?"

"From the slaughter, lady!—All, all is lost! Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe

And thy lord"-his voice took a sadder sound-
Thy lord-he is not on the bloody ground!

66

There are those who tell that the leader's plume
Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom."

A change o'er her mien and her spirit past;
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,
She dash'd the tears from her kindling eye,
With a glance, as of sudden royalty:
The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow,
Quick over bosom, and cheek, and brow,

And her young voice rose till the peasant shook
At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look:
-"Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead,
And fear not to say, that their son hath fled?
-Away! he is laying by lance and shield,-
Point me the path to his battle-field!"

The shadows of the forest
Are about the lady now;

She is hurrying through the midnight on,
Beneath the dark pine bough.

There's a murmur of omens in every leaf,
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief;
The branches that rock to the tempest-strife,

Are groaning like things of troubled life;

The wind from the battle seems rushing by

With a funeral march through the gloomy sky;

THE LADY OF PROVENCE.

The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,
But her frame in the daring of love is strong,
And her soul, as on swelling seas upborne,
Is girded all fearful things to scorn.

25

And fearful things were around her spread,
When she reach'd the field of the warrior-dead;
There lay the noble, the valiant, low-
Ay! but one word speaks of deeper woe;
There lay the loved-on each fallen head
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed;
Sisters were watching in many a home
For the fetter'd footstep, no more to come;
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken,
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken;
And the fire was heap'd, and the bright wine pour'd,
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board;
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,

And oh! ye beloved of woman, farewell!

Silently, with lips compress'd,

Pale hands clasp'd above her breast,

Stately brow of anguish high,

Death-like cheek, but dauntless eye;

Silently, o'er that red plain,

Moved the lady 'midst the slain.

Sometimes it seem'd as a charging cry,
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh;
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn,
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne;
And her maidens trembled;-but on her ear
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear;
VOL. VI.-

-3

They had less of mastery to shake her now,
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough.
She search'd into many an unclosed eye,
That look'd, without soul, to the starry sky;
She bow'd down o'er many a shatter'd breast,
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest-

Not there, not there he lay!

"Lead where the most hath been dared and done, Where the heart of the battle hath bled,—lead on!" And the vassal took the way.

He turn'd to a dark and lonely tree
That waved o'er a fountain red;
Oh! swiftest there had the currents free,
From noble veins been shed.

Thickest there the spear-heads gleam'd,
And the scatter'd plumage stream'd,
And the broken shields were toss'd,
And the shiver'd lances cross'd,
And the mail-clad sleepers round

Made the harvest of that ground.

He was there! the leader amidst his band,
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand;
He was there! but affection's glance alone
The darkly-changed in that hour had known;
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp'd,
And a banner of France to his bosom clasp'd,
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace,
And the face-oh! speak not of that dead face!
As it lay to answer love's look no more,
Yet never so proudly loved before!