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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS
 
 LEGENDAKY RHYMES, 
 
 #ti)er lloatts. 
 
 MAEY ANNA E. CHAKNOCK, 
 
 3.on!)on : 
 LONGMAN, BROWN, GKEEN, AND LONGMANS; 
 
 AND 
 
 ILLINGWORTH AND IIICK.S, WAKEI-'IELD. 
 
 MOCCCXLIII.
 
 WAKEFIELD: 
 ILLINGWORTH AND HICKS, PRINTERS, MARKET-PLACE.
 
 PR 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The writer of the following Poems is no 
 more. — Criticism therefore is disarmed, and these 
 lines must he regarded, rather as Memorials of the 
 departed, than us the effusions of a strong and 
 vigorous intellect, wliich panted for virtuous dis- 
 tinction, and cherished liigh aspirations. 
 
 By a large circle of Friends these tales will, 
 I am sure, he read with affectionate interest ; — 
 by me they will ever he valued in remembrance 
 of one, wlio, under circumstances of a peculiarly 
 trying nature, proved herself a truly liigh-minded 
 woman, and an excellent wife. 
 
 85372-9
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 To the Subscribers to her work, my dear 
 Wife always expressed herself deej)ly gi'ateful for 
 the readiness with which they assisted her in pre- 
 senting to the Pubhc the first productions of her 
 muse. — Had her life been spared, and had she 
 been encouraged to persevere, I feel assured her 
 subsequent compositions would have been still 
 more worthy of a favourable reception, and would 
 have done more ample justice to her varied know- 
 ledge and talents. 
 
 'O^ 
 
 Some apology is due for the length of time 
 which has elapsed since the announcement of the 
 Volume. — The delay has arisen from many inter- 
 ruptions wliich were unavoidable, and from the 
 pressure of domestic duties. 
 
 JOHN H. CHAENOCK. 
 
 Wakefield, 
 
 May 4, 1843.
 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY 1 
 
 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA . . . . 45 
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE 54 
 
 THE CONQUEROR'S DEATH-BED 108 
 
 THE BATTLE OF ST. JAQUES 112 
 
 THE APPRENTICE PILLAR IN ROSLYN CHAPEL . . 117 
 
 CATHERINE DE FOIX 122 
 
 NAVARRETTE EL MUDO 127 
 
 LAMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF FERRARA . . .134 
 
 JUNOT TO NAPOLEON 139 
 
 ODE TO SLEEP 142 
 
 BURLESQUE ODE 145 
 
 HYMN TO THE STARS 150 
 
 EPISTLE TO DON LUIS DE ZUNIGA 155 
 
 EPISTLE TO BOSCAN 15K 
 
 M.VDRIGAL 160 
 
 ANACREONTIC Ifil 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO .... 102 
 THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN ATTACKED BY A MORTAL 
 
 MALADY 164 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY A DISPLAY OF FIRE-WORKS . 167 
 
 THE DIVORCEE TO HER DAUGHTER 171
 
 xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS 174 
 
 TO A LADY WHO HAD SENT THE AUTHOR SOME VIOLETS 178 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR i80 
 
 SONG OF THE GENII . . . 183 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL 185. 
 
 LINES FOR MUSIC 187 
 
 THE CRUSADERS RETURN 189 
 
 THE STAR 191 
 
 ANCIENT IRISH KEEN VERSIFIED 193 
 
 DOCTOROMACHIA 195 
 
 TO THE PRINCESS VICTORIA 199 
 
 TO THE WHARFE 200 
 
 TO THE CILDER 201 
 
 ON VIEWING A PORTRAIT OF THOMAS WENTWORTH, 
 
 EARL OF STRAFFORD 202 
 
 TO THE NEW YEAR 203 
 
 PETRARCH, CHAUCER, FROISSART, AND THEIR 
 
 MEETING AT MILAN.— PETRARCH . . . . 204 
 
 CHAUCER 205 
 
 FROISSART 206 
 
 THEY MET 207 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF HURTADO DE MENDOZA . . 208 
 
 ROME BURIED IN HER RUINS 209 
 
 LISIDA 210 
 
 TO LISIDA, WITH THE FIRST SPRING FLOWER . .211 
 
 NOTES -^ 215
 
 LEGENDARY RHYMES.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY, 
 
 PART I. 
 
 On every spray the bright-robed JVIorn 
 
 Her glittering pearl drops flung. 
 As the joyous sound of the hunter's horn 
 
 Through Biscay's woodlands rung. 
 From the tangled brake the wild deer bounds. 
 As the bugle's note, and the bay of hounds. 
 Are sounding nearer, and yet more near. 
 And half in frolic, and half in fear. 
 He flies through the green-wood swift as wind. 
 And the hounds and hunters, far behind. 
 
 Come rushing on in their wild career — 
 Now through the shallow streamlet splashing. 
 Now up the steep bank fiercely dashing.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Now swiftly darting, with loosened rein. 
 In headlong speed o'er the level plain. 
 The youthful nobles of proud Biscay 
 Had met in the chace that joyous day. 
 And foremost still of the gallant band 
 Was the dauntless chief of that mountain land 
 And, I ween, a braver, nobler, knight, 
 In tourney's lists, or in field of fight. 
 
 Ne'er wielded lance or brand. 
 In war, he was first in the battle's strife. 
 In peace, his joy was the hunter's life ; 
 To drive the wild boar from his rocky lair. 
 To chase the dun wolf and the shaggy bear, 
 Or follow the ibex, from steep to steep. 
 With foot untiring, and fearless leap. 
 
 Such, from Diego's earliest youth. 
 Had been his life : — and yet, in truth. 
 Since (when in boyhood's happiest hour) 
 
 He first pursued the bounding roe. 
 Ne'er had he felt the inspirhig power 
 Within his breast so warmly glow ;
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 3 
 
 With lips compressed, and flashing eye. 
 He passed the foremost riders by, 
 And his swift steed, with ardour fired. 
 As if one spirit both inspired. 
 Rushed fleetly on with speed untired. 
 His friends beheld him with dismay 
 Bend towards the rocks his headlong way ; 
 Yet on he sped, unheeding all — 
 
 He swam the foaming mountain-stream. 
 He crossed the wood where cedars tall 
 
 Gave shelter from the noon-tide beam — 
 The stag and the hounds are in view, and behind 
 The shouts of the hmiters are borne on the wind — 
 " Still onward ! right onward !" he cries, and his steed. 
 With a j)roud neigh of triumph, redoubles his speed ; 
 Still onwai'd, right onward, is bounding the deer — 
 " Oh haste thee, my fleet one ! the jDrecipice clear !" 
 He strains every nerve as he hastens right on — 
 The steep bank is cleared — and the noble prize won — 
 
 Ah, no ! — where are they now ? 
 
 Alone in a narrow rocky glen, 
 
 b2
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Far from the sight or sound of men ; 
 
 The hounds and the deer are no longer seen, 
 
 Nor aught save bright flowers, and fern leaves green. 
 
 And the crag's high beetling brow : 
 
 And a little fount, as crystal clear. 
 
 From the steep rock ran sparkling near — 
 
 Oh welcome sight, in hour of need ! 
 
 Dismounting from his weary steed 
 
 He quaffs the cool fresh stream, and laves 
 
 His hot brow in its limpid waves. 
 
 Then, whilst his courser quenched his thirst 
 
 At that bright spring, he gazed around. 
 And deemed, he was of men the first 
 
 Who e'er had trod that fairy ground — 
 For spot so lovely might well have been 
 The chosen haunt of the Elfin Queen. 
 
 But hark ! what mean those silvery notes 
 That are bursting on his ear ? — 
 
 On the fragi-ant air of the valley floats 
 The song of another sphere.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 There was a time when the battle's sound, 
 The wolf's wild howl, and the bay of hound, 
 And the note of bugle loud and clear. 
 Had far more charms for his warlike ear. 
 Than the Provence Minstrel's most skilful lay. 
 Be it grave romance, or blythe roundelay — 
 Yet now he listens, as in a trance 
 Of sj^eechless rapture — with eager glance 
 He gazes round — below — above — 
 
 But throughout that lonely vale 
 He sees but the ferns in the light breeze move. 
 The puqile bells of the tall foxglove, 
 
 And the cystus' flowerets pale. — 
 Whence came the witching strain he heard — 
 Was it the song of some joyous bird ? 
 No ! listen, — again that sweet voice sings, — 
 It ceases — and now through the valley rings 
 Light sportive laughter, wildly gay, 
 As the mirthful tones of a child at jjlay ! 
 Curbing his startled steed, the knight 
 
 Again glanced quickly round. 
 And he saw, I ween, the strangest sight 
 
 Ere seen on christian gi-ound. —
 
 6 THE KOCK NYMrH OF BISCAY. 
 
 On a tiny ledge on the bare rock's face, 
 
 Full fifty yards o'er the vale below, 
 Where the chamois scarce might find a place, 
 
 There stood, in the sunlight's glow, 
 A maiden lovely as well might be — 
 And still she laughed in her s2:)ortive glee — 
 Then striking the lute, from her neck that hung. 
 With silvery sweetness again she sung. 
 Till the magic notes of that thrilling strain 
 Fell like a spell on his heart and brain. — 
 
 Then darting from his wondering steed. 
 Up that abrujit and dangerous steep 
 He boldly springs with buoyant leap. 
 
 And scarcely seems to hear, or heed, 
 That lovely lady's warning cry. 
 As, with hands clasped in agony. 
 
 She watched him on his fearless wa}'. 
 From crag to crag now lightly springing, — 
 Now to the rock weed firmly clinging — 
 
 One moment more shall his toil repay — 
 Another bound he is by her side — 
 Wlien the treacherous stones 'neath his footsteps slide ;
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 The scene swims round in his dazzled sight- 
 And he heavily falls from that giddy height. 
 
 Brightly again the morning broke, 
 When from his swoon the knight awoke — 
 As the first radiance of the skies 
 
 Fell softly on his aching head. 
 Wondering he turned his heavy eyes — 
 
 Where had his lowly couch been spread 
 Above him was a lofty dome, 
 With spars encrusted o'er. 
 And marble, white as ocean's foam. 
 Formed the stately gi'otto's floor : 
 Pillared with dazzling stalactite. 
 In the morning sunbeams shining bright, 
 And studded with many a crystal rare, 
 Brilliant as if each priceless gem, 
 That e'er graced monarch's diadem.. 
 
 Had been collected there : 
 There was the ruby's deep glow seen. 
 There was the amethyst's pui-ple light.
 
 8 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 The topaz pale, and the beryl green, 
 Onyx, and opal, and chrysolite. 
 
 As earnestly he gazed, the strain 
 
 That so bewitched him yester-even. 
 Rose softly on his ear again — 
 
 Like angel notes from heaven. 
 He turned his head, and by his side 
 
 Sat the bright Lady of the Glen, 
 In all her beauty's glowing pride ; 
 
 And if he deemed her lovely then — 
 As in her mirthful mischief bright 
 
 She stood upon that rocky height — 
 How much more lovely is she now ! 
 
 Her pitying eyes on him are turned. 
 Her soft hand bathes his aching brow. 
 
 Which with fierce fever burned. 
 The sparkling merriment that shone 
 In her dark azure eyes is gone. 
 Nor does that aspect fair express 
 Aught save regretful tenderness.
 
 THE KOCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 She spoke — the low soft accents fell 
 On his rapt spuit like a spell ; — 
 'Twas not the words, for they were few, 
 
 And but inquired if free from pain — 
 Yet to his inmost heart they flew. 
 
 Never to be forgot again. 
 
 Diego gazed on that sweet face. 
 
 And wondered much that one so fair, 
 Should dwell in such a lonely place — 
 Was she a maid of mortal race, 
 
 Or spirit of the air ? 
 Ne'er did more radiant loveliness 
 The eye of waking mortal bless ! 
 The form of light aerial grace ; 
 The deep blue eyes, the beaming face ; 
 And tresses, whose luxuriant flow 
 Fell on a neck of purest snow. 
 Brightly, as if each graceful fold 
 Had stolen the sunbeam's living gold. 
 
 How long in that enchanted grot 
 The wounded knight remained, how long
 
 10 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 She cheered him with her magic song, 
 
 The ancient legends tell us not : — 
 But when he left that lonely glen. 
 Once more to seek the homes of men. 
 That Lady bright was by his side. 
 His lovely and beloved bride — 
 Amid those rocks their vows were plighted, 
 Their destinies were there united. 
 She was, she said, the only child 
 
 Of race as noble as his own, 
 And long amid the mountains wild 
 
 In perfect bliss had dwelt alone ; 
 'Twas happiness for her to stray 
 
 Through those lone glens the whole day long, 
 Or, as the sunlight died away. 
 
 To wake the echoes with her song. 
 Yet she would leave that mountain land, 
 
 All she had loved so long and well. 
 She would accept his offered hand. 
 
 And mid a race of strangers dwell, — 
 Upon one sole condition — ne'er 
 Was she a holy name to hear !
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Though, when she asked that startling boon, 
 
 Diego turned away amazed, — 
 Yet were his doubts forgotten soon, 
 
 As on her lovely face he gazed — 
 Never could a fallen spirit wear, 
 
 A look so calm, so pure, so fair ! 
 
 Now in her husband's princely hall 
 
 Her fairy form was seen ; 
 Beloved by him, admired by all, 
 
 She reigned their sovereign queen. 
 There was not, in that mountain land, 
 One who could wield a knightl}' brand, 
 Who would not willingly have died 
 For their young chieftain's lovely brido. 
 And many a fair and noble dame. 
 
 Who came on those bright charms to gaze,,^ — 
 Half jealous of her beauty's fame. 
 
 Was first her peerless gi*ace to praise ; 
 For who could cherish jealousy 
 Of one so gently fair as she ? 
 
 11
 
 12 THE ROCK NYMPH 'OF BISCAY. 
 
 On all her bright eyes kindly shone. 
 For all she had some gracious word. 
 
 Spoken in that sweet silvery tone 
 
 That wins the heart as soon as heard. 
 
 Though midst that courtly throng she moved 
 Of all most lovely, and most loved. 
 She oft would leave the festive train. 
 Their lighted halls and pleasures vain, 
 To some less dazzling beauty's reign — 
 With her beloved lord to roam 
 Through the fair gardens of their home. 
 
 And there, in some sequestered bower. 
 By the cool fountain's mossy side. 
 Would watch the tiny wavelets glide. 
 
 For many a happy hour. — 
 But more than all, 'twas her delight 
 To wander through the woods at night, 
 When the moon shed her soft ])ale light ; 
 Then would her wild melodious song. 
 Echo the forest glades along :
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 13 
 
 And oft the hunter passing hy, 
 
 Returnhig to his home at even. 
 Would pause and listen breathlessly. 
 
 Deeming it some sweet strain from heaven. 
 
 Most beautiful was she and bright ! 
 
 With form of loveliest symmetry. 
 Graceful and radiant as a sprite. — 
 
 Yet had she one deformity, — 
 One strange defect, though known to few- 
 One foot was beautiful 'tis true, — 
 
 Delicate as the foot of a child — 
 The other as perfect might have been, — 
 
 Had it belonged to the chamois wild ; 
 But on lady's ankle small, I ween. 
 The rock goat's hoof is rarely seen. 
 
 And did Diego love his wife 
 
 Less for that one defect ? ah no ! 
 
 Rather as onward jjassed their life. 
 His love still wanner seemed to glow.
 
 14 THE ROCK NTMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 And well might his affections rest 
 
 On one so fair in form, and mind, 
 Well might he deem she was the best. 
 
 As fairest, of all womankind. 
 Since first they met, he ne'er had heard 
 From those sweet lips an angiy word. 
 Nor on that beauteous face had known 
 Disdainful look or haughty frown ; 
 For wrathful feelings never moved 
 The heart of her he fondly loved. 
 Yet fancy not that she was one 
 
 Whose placid smile, and cold bright eye. 
 In unchanged lustre calmly shone, — 
 
 Whose selfish equanimity. 
 Untouched by grief, unmoved by joy, 
 No power on earth could e'er destroy. 
 No ! her's the mirth whose joyous flow 
 
 Springs up unsullied from the heart. 
 And ever, at another's woe. 
 
 To her bright eyes the tears would start. 
 Her accents, ever sweet and mild, 
 
 Her gentle spirit well expressed — 
 Guileless and loving as a child.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 15 
 
 Such was the peerless one who blessed 
 Diego's home. — When from the chace 
 
 Returning wearily at night. 
 What happiness to meet that face, 
 
 In joyous welcome bright ! 
 To see her in her beauty's pride. 
 Her lovely children by her side. 
 Who, with the wiles of childish love. 
 To win her smiles and notice strove ! 
 In his young daughter's aspect fair 
 
 He loved her mother's channs to trace, — 
 The soft blue eyes, the golden hair. 
 
 And the form of fairy gi'ace. 
 And he saw, with pride, in his youthful heir 
 
 The future chief of a warlike race ; 
 For his was the bearing proud and high. 
 The fearless brow, and the bright dark eye. 
 And though scarce seven summers' light 
 Had shone on those tresses dark as night, 
 Yet well could lie aim the arrow's flight. 
 Could manage witli ease his Arab steed. 
 And curb his course at his highest speed ;
 
 16 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Till the vassals swore, that since the day 
 The northern hordes entered proud Biscay, 
 A boy of nobler or bolder mien 
 Was ne'er in the halls of their chieftain seen ! 
 
 And thus in blissful harmony, 
 
 On downy wings time flitted by ; — 
 
 Yet we must change this picture fair. 
 
 Its hapjiiness, its heartfelt mirth. 
 For disappointment, grief, and care. 
 
 For widowed heart, and lonely hearth. 
 They had lived together many a year. 
 Without one sorrow or chilling fear, 
 New pleasures came with each passing hour. 
 They had health and riches, fame and power,- 
 But now the scene must change. 
 
 One day 
 They sat at dinner in the hall ; 
 By Diego's chair a mastiff lay — 
 A stately mastiff strong and tall
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 17 
 
 And at their feet, in frolic play, 
 
 Gambolled a spaniel small. 
 A bone to the mastiff Diego flinig. 
 
 But he scarce had begun his feast, 
 When, with a gTowl, the spaniel sprung 
 
 At the throat of the lordly beast. 
 Nor could he be forced from his hold away. 
 Till dead at his feet the mastiff lay. — 
 " Jesu Maria"! exclamed the knight, 
 " Who ever beheld so strange a sight!" 
 
 The fatal words at length are spoken — 
 Their union is for ever broken — 
 And with a wild and harrowing cry. 
 
 The Lady clasped her children round,- 
 Whilst he, as if instinctively. 
 
 Sprung forward with a sudden bound. 
 And seized his son — but to her breast 
 Her daughter she securely pressed. 
 
 Then glided upward through the air — 
 But ere she disappeared, she threw. 
 From those large orbs of deepest blue,
 
 18 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 One parting look, so sad, that never. 
 If life's bright current flowed for ever. 
 
 Could he who once had seen forget: 
 Nor anger, nor reproach, was there — 
 
 But mournful love, and fond regret, — 
 Pity for him whose wayward fate. 
 Forced her to leave him desolate. 
 And never from that fatal hour. 
 In festive hall or lonely bower. 
 Where once their favourite haunts had been, 
 That Lady and her child were seen.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH UF BISCAY. 19 
 
 PART II. 
 
 In the Lord of Biscay's stately halls 
 The sound of revelry is o'er ; 
 And the minstrel's strain resounds no more. 
 
 Amid those lonely walls. 
 No more, through lighted chambers glide, 
 
 Gay knights and dames, a glittering throng ; 
 No more, at dewy eventide. 
 
 Is heard their lady's thrilling song. 
 
 .And few who passed those halls at night, 
 
 And saw the solitary light. 
 
 Gleam dimly from the western tower, 
 
 Had deemed a chief of fame and power. 
 
 Was passing there his manhood's flower. 
 
 In stem simplicity, that well 
 
 Might suit a hermit's rocky cell. 
 
 2
 
 20 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 For every trace of feudal jiride, 
 
 In griefs first hours, was laid aside, — 
 
 The pomp, the retinue, of state 
 
 Made him but feel more desolate ; 
 
 His was the overmastering grief, — 
 
 The agony whose sole relief 
 
 Is earnest prayer — for hope was fled ! 
 
 Oh ! better had he mourned her dead, — 
 
 Then were the consolation given, 
 
 That they might meet again in heaven. 
 
 But such inspiring hope was not 
 
 For him who grieved as broken-hearted,- 
 Lonely and desolate his lot. 
 
 From her he loved for ever parted — 
 All the fond dreams of life are o'er. 
 On earth — in heaven — they meet no more 
 
 Thus by all other joys unblest. 
 His fond afTections seemed to rest 
 On him, the yet remaining child. 
 Who still to soothe his anguish smiled. 
 And wanuly did the boy repay 
 His father's lavish tenderness ;
 
 THE EOCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 21 
 
 And fondly strove, the livelong day, 
 With love that words could ill express, 
 
 To charm his soul's deep gi'ief away. 
 
 He read him many a monkish tale. 
 Of holy saints, and martyrs old ; 
 
 And while his cheek with awe grew pale. 
 Full many a wondrous legend told ; 
 
 Till of his son'ows half beguiled. 
 
 The father gazed upon his child. 
 
 And sought in that young earnest face. 
 
 The hope of future years to trace. 
 
 And when, at length, his griefs wild sway, 
 To time's all-soothing power gave way. 
 It was a kind of mournful joy. 
 
 To wander through that altered home ; 
 And with that bold, yet thoughtful boy. 
 
 Through each remembered scene to roam, 
 Where she, by both so fondly loved. 
 In peerless grace and beauty moved. 
 Oft would they pace the woodland glade. 
 Where the tall chesnuts flung their shade ;
 
 22 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Or in her favorite oi-aiige bower, 
 Would sit in converse many an hour. 
 
 But what the theme was never known — 
 Some said, he sjioke of his lost wife, — 
 But, to the latest hour of life. 
 
 Save by young Iniguez alone. 
 Her name — that sweet grief-hallowed word- 
 By mortal ears, was never heard. 
 
 Years passed, and on Diego's brow 
 
 Were seen the deepening lines of care ; 
 His cheek had lost its youthful glow. 
 And the hand of time had streaked with snow. 
 
 His once bright raven hair. 
 With youth, his soul's deep grief had past ; 
 And the strange sorrow, that had cast 
 A blight upon his life, would seem 
 The memory of some mournful dream ! — • 
 Once more, the daring chace he led ; 
 Once more, the festive board was spread ; 
 And the bright lamps at midnight hour. 
 Again were seen from hall and bower.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 23 
 
 Now to invade the Moorish land, 
 Diego leads a chosen band ; 
 From lowly hut, from lordly tower, 
 
 Proud Biscay pours her free and brave. 
 From the encroaching Moslem's power. 
 
 Their own loved mountain homes to save : 
 And bolder waiTiors never yet. 
 Upon the field of battle met. 
 With crested helm and armour bright 
 There proudly rode the gallant knight. 
 In tunic green the forestere. 
 And the wild son of the hills was there. 
 Clad in the hide of the shaggy bear. 
 And ever by Diego's side 
 Rode one in youthful manhood's pride. 
 Whose dauntless mien, and aspect high. 
 Spoke him the flower of cliivalry. 
 
 But hark ! tlio trumpet's clanghig sound ! 
 
 To arms ! to anus ! tlio shrill notes call, 
 And hastily they gather round. 
 
 Their chieftains standard tall.
 
 24 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 The answering blast from the Moorish camp 
 Is heard ; and the war steeds gathering tramp ; 
 And wildly now on the breeze is borne. 
 The sound of the cymbal, fife, and horn, 
 
 In shrill defiance sounding : 
 And the chiefs of the Moorish hosts are seen. 
 In glittering armour, and vests of gi'een. 
 
 On their fiery coursers bounding. 
 Like the angry roar of some mountain stream. 
 
 When swolen by autumn rain. 
 And foaming white in the stormlight's gleam. 
 
 It rushes across the plain ; 
 With one wild sliout, whose warlike sound 
 Was echoed by the mountains round, 
 So rushed they from the hill's steep brow, 
 Upon the turban'd host below — 
 One crash — the armies now have met. 
 And spear and brand with gore are wet. 
 
 But who shall tell the mournful tale 
 Of that disastrous field of blood. 
 When ancient Dowro's crystal flood 
 
 Ran crimson through the narrow vale.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 25 
 
 And the bravest Knights of high Biscay, 
 Dead on the field of battle lay ? 
 The sun was rising in the east, 
 
 When first began that desperate fray, 
 And ere the bloody conflict ceased. 
 
 Daylight was fading fast away. 
 Yet when the deepening shades of night 
 
 Forced them reluctant from the field. 
 Though half their ranks had fallen in fight. 
 
 Still their fierce spirits scorned to yield ; 
 But, step by step, they fought their way. 
 Back to the mountains of Biscay. 
 
 The sounds of war at length are still ; 
 And now on every distant hill. 
 
 Brightly the watch fires l)uni ; 
 And many a maid fnr hor love is weeping ; 
 And many a wife is lier vigil keejnng, 
 
 For those who can ne'er return ! 
 Though many bitter tears were shed, 
 That night o'er the beloved dead,
 
 '26 THE RUCK NYMPH UI' BISCAY. 
 
 None mourned with more absorbing grief. 
 Than Iniguez, their youthful chief. 
 
 Alone in that dim-lighted hall 
 He wept — of all he loved bereft — 
 For on that fatal plain was left 
 
 The noblest, best beloved of all ! 
 And those who know the powerful tie. 
 
 That binds the parent and his child. 
 May jiicture well the agony — 
 
 The soiTow, passionate, and wild — 
 Which wrung that warm and loving heart 
 From his dear Father thus to part. 
 With him youth's brightest hopes seemed lost. 
 
 All social joy, all converse free ; 
 And like some vessel tempest-tost. 
 
 Alone upon a dangerous sea. 
 Felt Biscay's young, and noble heir. 
 
 When from his castle's terrace high 
 He gazed on his possessions fair. 
 
 With aching heart, and tear-dimmed eye. 
 Well might he weej) — to him in vain 
 'Were treasm'ed gold, and wide domain,
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH ClF BISCAY. 27 
 
 And boundless sway o'er tiekl, and flood. 
 If purchased by his father's blood ! 
 
 Spring's joyous days again returned. 
 
 Yet still in deepest grief he mourned. 
 
 Often he left his stately home, 
 
 For whole umioticed hours to roam 
 
 Through the deep woods, or vallies lonely, — 
 
 His father's favourite blood-hound only. 
 
 Was by his side, with keen dark eye 
 
 Still fixed on his, as earnestly 
 
 As if the generous brute could guess. 
 
 And, pitying, feel his lord's distress. 
 
 As thus he roamed the glades alone, 
 
 When shone the morning bright and clear. 
 
 He heard a low, and stifled moan, 
 Sound from the covert near — 
 
 With one shrill bark, and vigorous bound. 
 
 Right forward sprang the noble hound ;
 
 28 THE EOCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Iniguez followed swift — and there — 
 Stretched, fainting, on the cold damp ground, 
 A lone wayfaring man he found, 
 
 O'ercome with toil, and worn with care ; 
 Matted his hair, his beard unshorn. 
 His garments coarse, to tatters worn, 
 That none, save Iniguez alone. 
 The chieftain's favourite squire had known. 
 And though he gazed with gi'ief, and pain. 
 On that sad sight — across his brain 
 
 A ray of hope flashed suddenly, — 
 For he by Don Diego's side. 
 Was seen when battle's fiercest tide, 
 
 In blood and flame was raging high. 
 Impatiently he rushed for aid, 
 A rustic litter soon was made. 
 On which the way-worn man they laid. 
 They bore him thence with gentlest care 
 To his own home, and tended there 
 
 By skilful leech, life's wavering flame. 
 Once more within his dim eyes burned, 
 And soon, as consciousness returned. 
 
 His youthful Lord he called bv name.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 29 
 
 And told in accents weak' and low, 
 The tale of that disastrous field ; 
 How his brave chief was forced to yield, 
 
 SuiTounded by the o'erwhelming foe ; 
 And how, with mingled rage and jjain. 
 
 He had seen him through Toledo borne. 
 Loaded with many a heavy chain, 
 
 The haughty Paymins jest and scorn. 
 And now in dungeon deep he lay. 
 To sorrow and desj^air a prey. 
 That he himself, with many a wile. 
 Contrived his keepers to beguile. 
 
 And from his jjrison fled away. 
 And many a long and lonely league, 
 
 Since then had travelled wearily, 
 Till worn with hunger and fatigue. 
 
 He had sunk beneath that tree to die, — 
 Almost at his own threshold laid, — 
 In utter hopelessness of aid. 
 Though wlien he heard that mournful talc, 
 The cheek of Iniguez grew pale, 
 And his eyes flashed with burning ire. 
 And with youth's wild inii)etuous fire.
 
 30 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 He swore revenge upon his foes; 
 Yet when he gazed around on those, 
 Who of that band alone remain, 
 He felt how utterly in vain. 
 All hojie to win by force of arms, 
 
 Against that brave, and mighty host ; 
 And gold he knew had lost it's channs. 
 
 For 'twas the haughty Moslem's boast. 
 Not all the wealth in Spain should free. 
 The pride of christian chivalry. 
 
 And then the wise men of the land — 
 Those to whom wond'rous lore was known- 
 Told the young chief that one alone 
 
 On earth, had power at her command. 
 To set his noble father free. — 
 
 And bade him seek that lonely vale. 
 Where his bright mother's song of glee. 
 
 First floated wildly on the gale ; 
 And there, upon his bended knee. 
 Entreat her now at length to prove 
 For him a mother's fondest love, —
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 31 
 
 And deign his noble sire to save 
 From joyless life, and early grave. 
 
 It was a lovely morn in June — 
 Ere the grey dawn with crimson dye 
 Had tinged the east, and in the sky 
 
 The last beams of the setting moon. 
 And the bright morning star alone. 
 In soft and pearly radiance shone — 
 When Iniguez, the dauntless hearted, 
 From his ancestral halls departed. 
 With hopes renewed, to seek the glen 
 Where far from busy mortal's ken. 
 His fairy mother's haunts had been. 
 Swiftly past each frequented scene. 
 He urges on his gallant steed, — 
 Forward they haste with breathless speed, — 
 They swim the rapid mountain flood, — 
 They cross the gloomy cedar wood, — 
 And suddenly he checks him now — 
 Beneath the high clifTs frowning brow.
 
 32 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 For in that lonely vale they stand, — 
 His fairy mother's mystic land, 
 The fountain murmurs at their feet. 
 
 And on the mossy ground, 
 A thousand flowrets fresh and sweet. 
 
 Waft their soft fragrance round. 
 
 But hark ! — that well remembered strain. 
 
 Is soimding wild and clear! 
 And his heart bounds to hear again. 
 
 Those notes to memory dear — 
 He listens as the strain floats on — 
 
 The air — the words — are still the same. 
 But the light-hearted mirth is gone 
 
 And mournfully the accents came. 
 Like some unhap2)y sjiirit's wail. 
 Heard on the winter midnight's gale. 
 His mother stands beside him now — 
 
 As young, as beautiful as ever ! 
 But grief is on her stately brow. 
 
 Her lips with strong emotion quiver;
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 33 
 
 Time had no power to fade that face. 
 Or change that fonn's immortal gi'ace, 
 
 Or thin that bright luxm-iant hair ; 
 But years of woe had left their trace. 
 
 Upon those features softly fair. 
 
 " My son, I know thy mission well," 
 
 In gentle tones the lady cried, 
 " Thou art come the mouniful tale to tell 
 
 " Of one in haughty manhood's pride, 
 " A lonely captive doomed to dwell. — 
 
 " And by a mother's love for thee — 
 " By my aifection deep for him — 
 " Which time or soitow ne'er can dim — 
 
 "You bid me set my husband free ! 
 " My Iniguez ! the boon you ask 
 
 " Is gi'anted — yet in vain my ])Ower 
 " Unaided — thine must be the task, 
 
 " This night, at midnight's silent hour, 
 " When all his guards arc whelmed in sleep, 
 " To rescue him from dungeon deep."
 
 34 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Then she called Pardalo her steed, 
 Of wondrous sense, and matchless speed. 
 Who wild among the momitains ran. 
 Ne'er yet bestrode by mortal man. 
 She placed a bridle in his mouth, 
 
 (The rein was silk, the bit was gold,) 
 She turned his head towards the south, — 
 
 And then young Iniguez she told. 
 That he must not remove the rein. 
 
 Nor give him aught to drink or eat. 
 
 Nor with rough iron shoe his feet. 
 And over river, rock, and plain. 
 He would haste on so rapidly. 
 
 That ere the radiant queen of night. 
 Should reach her zenith in the sky, 
 
 Toledo's halls would be in sight. 
 
 She taught him then a spell of power. 
 Beneath whose strange mysterious sway. 
 
 Uttered at midnight's lonely hour. 
 
 Strong grated doors would all give way.
 
 THE RUCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 35 
 
 " And now, my child, farewell for ever !" 
 She cried, with sad and faltering voice, 
 " The homes of men have been thy choice, 
 " And 1 again must see thee never ! 
 " Compelled by loftier powers to sever 
 " From those I love — yet think of me 
 " When amid those most dear to thee ! 
 " Oh ! whilst life's rapid tide rolls on, 
 " Forget me not — my son ! my son !" 
 
 Then as he knelt, her lips she pressed 
 Upon his fair and noble brow, 
 And round him threw her arms of snow. 
 
 Clasping him fondly to her breast. 
 And then, with one long heavy sigh, 
 Released him, and with tearful eye 
 Beheld him mount his demon steed. 
 Yet ere he urged him to bis speed, 
 One parting look on her lie threw. 
 And breathed one tender — last adieu. 
 
 And as his steed flew on he heard. 
 
 Once more her strangely mouniful song, 
 
 d2
 
 36 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Floating the momitaiii breeze along, 
 
 Like the sad notes of some wild bird. 
 Which, left alone and desolate, 
 Laments her lost or absent mate.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY, 37 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Don Diego in the Moorish dungeon lay. 
 Wearily I wearily ! 
 
 No longer on fleet wings time hastes away, 
 But drearily — drearily — 
 
 Lag on the sleepless night, the joyless day. 
 Long has he waited in vain, in vain, 
 For ransom or rescue ; he must remain 
 Still in that lonely prison's gloom ; 
 His days must be passed in a living tomb ; 
 All hope of aid from his heart is fled. 
 And with throbbing pulse and aching head. 
 Slowly he paces his dungeon floor. 
 And sadly remembers the days of yore. — 
 He thinks of his own loved mountain home. 
 And longs through those peaceful glens to roam,
 
 38 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 And to see once more his noble boy, 
 
 With his bright dark eyes and laugh of joy — 
 
 He thinks of the time when his elfin bride. 
 
 In her radiant beauty was by his side. 
 
 Till he heard her light soft footstep bounding, 
 
 And her silvery voice in his ear was sounding. 
 
 And again they wandered, hand in hand, 
 
 Through the orange groves of his native land. 
 
 Then he starting turned, and looked around 
 
 With wild bewildered gaze — 
 He saw but high walls, and cold damp ground, 
 
 And the bright moon's palid rays. 
 Which sadly streamed through the casement nigh. 
 And he turned away with a heavy sigh. 
 But hark ! — soft accents breathe his name. 
 
 In a voice for long years known — 
 Like incense o'er his spirit came. 
 
 Each well remembered tone : — 
 He pressed his hand to his burning brow — 
 
 It is but the night wind's moan — 
 Once more ! — 'lis no illusion now !
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 39 
 
 He forward springs, as noislessly 
 
 The ponderous hinges open fly — 
 
 With joy's wild tumults whirls his brain — 
 
 His son he clasps to his heart again ! 
 
 Oh ! who can paint the wild delight, 
 
 In those long severed hearts now beating, 
 As in such strange yet happy meeting. 
 
 They stand on this eventful night ; 
 Yet there is little time for greeting. 
 
 They hear their steed's impatient neigh. 
 For nearly past is the charmed hour. 
 Soon will the spell have lost it's power, 
 
 And they must speed away, away ! — 
 
 Full many a gi'ated door they past. 
 And threaded many a winding stair, — 
 
 They have reached the open plain at last. 
 And their wild steed awaits them there : 
 
 Quickly they bound u})oii his back, 
 Whilst he as with new power elate. 
 Seems scarce to feel the added weight, 
 
 P.ut wends towards the north his track; 
 
 So swiftly over hill, and dale. 
 
 Through forest, stream, and rocky vale.
 
 40 THE ROCK NVMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 He hastes, that ere the noontide's ray 
 Has over heaven resumed it's sway. 
 In their beloved mountain land. 
 
 E'en at their stately castle door. 
 The son and rescued father stand. 
 
 And toil and suffering now are o'er ; 
 And soon as from his burden freed. 
 
 Their steed with neigh of proud delight. 
 Bent with untiring, headlong speed. 
 
 To the wild rocks his rapid flight. 
 
 And was seen by mortal eyes no more. 
 
 To their own land once more returned, 
 Fortune's bright sun upon them shone. 
 Yet still o'er bliss for ever flown. 
 
 For long, long years Diego mourned. 
 
 For when he knew that to his wife. 
 
 He owed his freedom and his life,— 
 
 And how, in solitude unblest. 
 
 O'er long departed joys she wept. 
 Then all the sorrow that had slept. 
 
 Once more revived within his breast ;
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 41 
 
 He mourned in anguish wild and vain. 
 For her he ne'er must see again. 
 
 And when his son, in manhood's pride, 
 Had wooed and won a lovely bride — 
 One of a high and ancient race, 
 
 As beautiful as nobly born. 
 And blessed with every gentle gi'ace. 
 
 That could a woman's mind adorn, — 
 Yet when he saw her lake the j)lace. 
 
 In hall and bower of her he lost, 
 A bitter pang would wring his heart — 
 He would turn away with sudden start. 
 
 As if some snake his path had crossed : 
 Her innocence, her guileless mirth. 
 
 Could not assuage his soul's deep grief, 
 
 Nor time, nor change, could bring relief- 
 There is no bliss for him on earth. 
 And when o'erwhelmed with torturing care, 
 His solace now was fervent prayer, 
 And the hope that, all his sins forgiven, 
 He might find rest at length in heaven.
 
 42 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Yet even then, he coiikl not pray 
 
 l''ov her he loved, though far away ; 
 
 Even then his heart throbbed wild with pain. 
 
 To feel all prayer for her was vain. 
 
 And sadder e'en than his, the fate 
 Of her, his strangely beauteous mate. 
 For he at least, within the tomb. 
 Might hope for rest — but her's the doom 
 
 Of joyless immortality — 
 For centuries, in loveless bloom. 
 
 To live — and feel her children die ! 
 And with a mother's grief to weep. 
 
 In woe that will not fade away, 
 O'er all who sink in death's long sleep ; 
 
 For still, the momitain peasants say. 
 When one of Haro's princely race, 
 Is borne to his last resting place, 
 The Lady's cry of wild despair, 
 Is heard upon the midnight air.
 
 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 43 
 
 And such the fate of all whose love 
 
 Is but of earth, though warm and fond — 
 Unblest, unhallowed, from above — 
 
 Without one thought this world beyond. 
 Fortune may lend her sunniest smile. 
 And all seem prosperous for awhile. 
 Let trials come — and come they must — 
 
 Where are the prospects late so fair ? — 
 All lost and crumbled into dust ! — 
 And coldness — jealousy — distrust — 
 
 With all their bitter stings — are there. — 
 And heart once fondly knit to heart. 
 In sorrow must for ever part : 
 For who can hope their house to stand, 
 When founded on the unstable sand ! 
 
 Far dilfercnt that alFcction given 
 
 (The purest — holiest — boon of heaven) 
 
 To cheer our weary pilgrimage : — 
 
 The heart's bright guiding star in youth- 
 Thc comfort of declining age — 
 
 Firm in its own lugh-minded truth —
 
 44 THE ROCK NYMPH OF BISCAY. 
 
 Constant in 8onow as in joy — 
 Which earthly change can ne'er destroy .- 
 Built on religion's sacred rock. 
 Unharmed it braves the tempest's shock, 
 Whilst each affliction seems to twine. 
 
 Closer each holy — gentle — tie. 
 And love is as a thing divine, 
 
 A foretaste of eternity ! 
 Though poverty, or pain, or woe. 
 May be the portion here below, 
 Ev^en of that pure and perfect love. 
 It's brightest hopes are fixed above — 
 And, on the heavenly wings of faith. 
 It soars, triumphant over death ! 
 For well it knows, the grief and pain 
 
 Of mortal life will soon be o'er ; 
 And those who loved on earth, again 
 Shall meet in heaven — to part no more.
 
 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA. 
 
 The midnight chimes were somiding clear 
 From *Tilleda's tmTcts grey, 
 
 As, merrily, through the forest shades. 
 Three Minstrels took their way. 
 
 Ernulph and Wolf, were men in years. 
 Right meny bards were they ; 
 
 And, like the crickets, in dance and song 
 They frolicked their lives away. 
 
 But Hennan's young and ardent heart. 
 
 With nobler feelings glowed ; 
 His lofty mien, and deep blue eye, 
 
 A poet's fervour showed. 
 
 * Tilleda in Bohemia,
 
 46 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA. 
 
 At the festive board of Tilleda's lord 
 They had sat that joyous night. 
 
 And sung their choicest minstrelsy 
 To knights, and ladies bright. 
 
 Cheerily, through the dim gi-een wood. 
 They homeward wend their way. 
 
 As the waning moon midst the foliage shone. 
 With faint and wavering ray. 
 
 And, here and there, a seared oak flung 
 
 It's spectral arms on high. 
 And the owlet's moan, with mournful tone, 
 
 Was borne on the night wind's sigh. 
 
 They heeded not the owlet's cry. 
 
 As they merrily sped along. 
 And roused the slumbering echoes round. 
 
 With many a jest and song. 
 
 At length they came where the dark grey rock, 
 Like some ancient fortress, frowned ; 
 
 Whose summit steep, with tower and keep. 
 And battlement seemed crowned.
 
 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA. 47 
 
 With hush'd voice then young Herman spoke, 
 
 " Our ancient legend tells, 
 " That in cavern vast beneath these rocks, 
 
 " Great Barbarossa dwells. — 
 
 " And, when an"ives the ajjpointed hour, 
 
 " Will come in wonted might, 
 " To save our land from the foeman's power, 
 
 " On the field of glorious fight." 
 
 Then, gaily, Ernulph thus replied, 
 
 " Methinks 'tis many a year, 
 " Since the sound of lute or roundelay, 
 
 " Has greeted our Kaiser's ear. 
 
 "They say, that when he ruled on earth, 
 
 " He loved the minstrel's art — 
 " Let us give him then our blythest strain, 
 
 " To cheer his brave old heart !" 
 
 Whilst yet he spoke, from rock to rock, 
 
 Bright glancing lights were seen. 
 And the Kaiser's daughter near them stood, 
 
 In a robe of forest green.
 
 48 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA. 
 
 A golden circlet bound her hair; 
 
 A golden zone, her waist; 
 And ne'er, I ween, was regal bower. 
 
 By lovelier lady graced. 
 
 Bidding them follow her, she led 
 
 To a hall of royal state. 
 Where, guarded by his chosen knights, 
 
 Great Barbarossa sate. 
 
 He sate, with his good sword finnly grasj^ed, 
 
 111 a chair of sculptured stone ; 
 And through the table by his side. 
 
 His long red beard had grown. 
 
 Then, as they wondering stood, in tones 
 That made that vast vault ring. 
 
 The Kaiser bade them not delay. 
 Their promised strain to sing. 
 
 They chaunted many a thrilling lay. 
 Of the well fought fields of strife ; 
 
 The warriors bold of the days of old ; 
 And the hunter's jovial life.
 
 A LEGEND OF FREDEPaC BARBAROSSA. 49 
 
 And as they sang, with martial fire 
 
 The Kaiser's eye grew bright ; 
 He marked the time with hand and head. 
 
 And smiled in grim delight. 
 
 And still the beautiful Princess 
 
 Stood by her father's side. 
 Gazing, with filial tenderness. 
 
 Upon his brow of pride. 
 
 The minstrels ceased — with courteous tone 
 
 She praised their tuneful art ; 
 Then told them morning's hour was near. 
 
 And they must thence depart. 
 
 She poured them wine in cups of gold, 
 
 Adorned with jewels rare ; 
 And they drank to the health of the Kaiser bold. 
 
 And his child, that Lady fair. 
 
 She led them from that cavern hall, 
 
 Back to the dim greenwood. 
 Until they reached the very spot. 
 
 Where they before had stood ;
 
 50 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA. 
 
 Then gave them each a laurel branch — 
 But neither gold nor gem — 
 
 And left them as, with silvery tones. 
 She bade, " God prosper them !" 
 
 Rapidly through the forest glades 
 
 Again they wend their way. 
 Nor spoke, nor paused, till golden streaks, 
 
 Proclaimed approaching day. 
 
 Theuj as they reached the open plain. 
 And haunts of men once more. 
 
 The elder bards began to talk 
 That night's adventure o'er. 
 
 Said Wolf, " for all our minstrelsy 
 
 " Methiuks 'tis poor return, 
 " To pay us thus with worthless sticks, 
 
 " Not even fit to burn. 
 
 " With ruddy gold is our song repaid 
 " In the halls of knight and lord ; 
 
 " And even the poor, and rustic boor, 
 " Can silver coin afford.
 
 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BAKBAROSSA. 51 
 
 " Of all those glittering cups of gold, 
 
 " And jewels sparkling sheen, 
 " They well might spare, some little share, 
 
 " For us poor bards, I ween !" 
 
 With flashing eye young Herman cried, 
 
 " Curse on your soul-less thrift ! 
 "Is the wreath of Fame from noble dame 
 
 "A slight, or worthless gift ? 
 
 " Oh, till the latest hour of life, 
 
 " That gift shall cherished be, 
 ** In memory of this wondrous night, 
 
 " And of that bright Ladye !" 
 
 His comrades marked his earnest mood 
 
 With cold contemptuous sneer; 
 And flung their branches far away, 
 
 With many a jibe and jeer. 
 
 Young Herman heeded not their taunts 
 
 But silently strode on. 
 Bearing his bough with lofty air. 
 
 As guerdon nobly won. 
 
 E 2
 
 f)2 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA. 
 
 And still as brighter glowed the dawn. 
 
 It heavier grew and cold, — 
 And, when the first glad sunbeams burst. 
 
 The branch was solid gold ! — 
 
 Joyously, to his humble home. 
 He bears his glittering prize — 
 
 His comrades speechless and amazed. 
 Look on with envious eyes. 
 
 Then eagerly their steps retrace. 
 
 Back through the open plain. 
 And diligently search, to find 
 
 Their laurel boughs again. 
 
 They searched hedge-side, and woody glade. 
 Throughout that livelong day ; 
 
 Full many a worthless weed they found — 
 But found no laurel spray. 
 
 Oft, when the waning moon shone pale. 
 They sought those rocks again, 
 
 And made the dreamy forest ring, 
 With many a martial strain.
 
 A LEGEND OF FREDERIC BARBAROSSA. 53 
 
 But they saw nor light, nor lady bright. 
 Nor aught — save grim grey rock ; — 
 
 And nought they heard, but the owlet's cry — 
 Which seemed their grief to mock. 
 
 Child of song ! may this legend wild. 
 
 In thy breast an echo find. — 
 Deem not that wealtli alone repays 
 
 Thy noblest gifts of mind ! 
 
 Still be thy aim a deathless name — 
 
 In virtue's cause be bold — 
 Like Herman's branch, thy wreath of fame. 
 
 May turn at last to gold.
 
 MARGUEKITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 O FAIR Provence ! land where the west wind loves 
 
 To sigh for ever amid orange groves ; 
 
 Where, in her loveliest fragrance, blooms the rose ; 
 
 And the fair myrtle, her soft perfume throws ; 
 
 Where the rich purple clusters of the vine. 
 
 In bright luxuriance through the foliage shine ; 
 
 And ever-bounteous Nature freely showers 
 
 On all around, her choicest fruits and flowers. 
 
 Land of Romance ! where Poesy first woke 
 
 To rescue Europe from th' enslaving yoke 
 
 Of gothic darkness : where the Minstrels' lays 
 
 First sung their chieftains', or their ladies' praise : 
 
 And worthy were their themes, for braver kniohts 
 
 Ne'er wielded brand in Syria's hundred fights ;
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 55 
 
 And lovelier ladies never led the dance. 
 Amid the royal halls of courtly France. 
 
 O'er this bright land in years long passed away 
 The brave Count Raymond held the sovereign sway 
 In manhood's stately prime, of aspect high. 
 And lofty brow, and darkly- flashing eye. 
 Brightest and bravest of a gifted line, 
 In him the hero and the bard combine ; 
 And wedded to a dame of peerless grace. 
 Fair Beatrix of Savoy's noble race. 
 
 Thus of this rich and fertile land possessed, 
 And in domestic love supremely blessed. 
 How happy seemed his lot — yet who can know. 
 The full extent of other's joy or woe ! 
 Oh, mark that haggard brow, and lip comprest, 
 And ever changing glance of wild unrest ; 
 High station, broad domains, and wit refined, 
 Can nought avail to calm an anxious mind.
 
 56 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Over the plains of that once prosperous land, 
 Stern Misery had laid his iron hand. 
 Beaten to earth hy summer's heavy rain. 
 The com lay black, and withering on the plain. 
 Upon the vines the grapes unripened hung. 
 Choked by the noxious weeds that round them clung. 
 The olive trees a scanty produce yield ; 
 The cattle died by hundreds in the field. 
 No more the gi'eenwood rung at early morn. 
 With the glad echoes of the hunter's honi. 
 No more at eve the shepherd's song was heard. 
 Whose joyous notes rivalled the forest bird. 
 And halls where late the rebeck's merry tone, 
 And the gay minstrel's song were heard alone. 
 Re-echoed now with giiefs heart broken moan. 
 To crown the whole, protracted war had drained 
 The land's best blood ; and those who yet remained. 
 The young and active, left their native land 
 To seek their bread upon a foreign strand. 
 And in the streets, a wild and wolfish crowd 
 Of hungry wretches, with complainings loud. 
 Clamoured for food ; and distant rumours came 
 That dark rebellion, with her midnight flame
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 57 
 
 Had woke within the land. In Raymond's heart 
 Their murmurs rankled, like a venomed dart : 
 His high and haughty spirit could not brook, 
 The muttered curse, and the averted look. — 
 The thoughtless splendour of his early life. 
 And those long years of fierce, and fruitless strife. 
 With neighbouring chieftains, had his coffers drained 
 Of all the wealth his father's sword had gained, — 
 Thus powerless to aid them, he, no less 
 Than his de])endants, felt the land's distress. 
 And much it pained him that the suffering poor. 
 Should, unrelieved, be driven from his door. 
 
 Unceasing care upon his spirit preyed. 
 His eyes grew lustreless ; his strength decayed. 
 His lips had lost the sunny smile of yore. 
 And his light ringing laugh was heard no more. 
 Unheeded now his lady's gentle voice. 
 Whose accents sweet could once his heart rejoice. — 
 And when his children, in their sportive glee. 
 Around him played, how mournful 'twas to see 
 His look of mingled love and agony —
 
 58 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 For well he knew how sad and desolate. 
 
 Should he he summoned hence, would be then- fate. 
 
 He feared the chieftains of that iron age 
 
 Would seize on their defenceless heritage ; 
 
 To unloved suitor give each maiden's hand. 
 
 Or drive them, friendless, from their native land. 
 
 And thus in sad forebodings, and dismay. 
 
 The gloomy autumn slowly past away. 
 
 At length arrived that season of the year. 
 In every Christian country, held most dear : 
 That time when loving friends> and kindred meet 
 In social merriment, and converse sweet. 
 And though affliction, like a mourn f'd pall. 
 Had flung its dismal shadow over all. 
 Count Raymond holds his wonted festival. 
 At his command his nobles wend their way 
 To spend their Christmas at the court of Aix. 
 And though amongst the throng, were many seen 
 With care-worn faces and dejected mien. 
 There met that morning in the sacred fane. 
 Of high-born knights, and dames a goodly train.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 59 
 
 And as of hopes sublime, and man forgiven, 
 Pealed the glad harmony of praise to heaven, 
 The assembled multitudes forgot their woes, 
 And, with one voice, tlie holy anthem rose. 
 ^^^len mass was over, at the sacred door 
 JNIoney and food were given to the poor, 
 For Raymond vowed his subjects all should feast. 
 If never more, upon that day, at least. 
 
 The morning's sacred duties o'er ; again 
 In Raymond's palace met the courtly train, 
 Where in its stateliest hall the feast was spread ; 
 And countless lamps their cheerful radiance shed. 
 O'er many a beauteous dame, and gallant knight. 
 O'er costly robes, and jewels glittering bright. 
 And now, whilst gaily rings the revelry. 
 And all is mcn-iment and careless glee. 
 And every heart, despite of adverse fate. 
 Seems with new hopes of happiness elate, 
 A startling summons at the castle gate 
 Sounds through the hall — quickly the warder goes. 
 To leant from whom the unwonted clamour rose.
 
 60 MAEGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Soon he returns, and answers, bending low, 
 " The wind blows keenly, fastly falls the snow, 
 " A Pilgi'im from the shrine of good St. James, 
 " Lord Count, your hospitable shelter claims." 
 
 With air serene, and fomi erect, and tall. 
 The aged pilgrim enters now the hall, 
 And, bowing to the Count with courteous grace, 
 'Mid the retainers humbly takes his place. 
 The chiefs and ladies on the stranger gaze. 
 And mark his lofty aspect with amaze ; 
 For though his hair, and beard are white as snow. 
 There is no wrinkle on his stately brow ; 
 And his deep azure eyes, so purely bright. 
 Sparkle at times with more than mortal light ; 
 And when he speaks, the accents calmly clear. 
 Fall like soft music, on the enraptured ear. 
 And scarce a whisper or a sound is heard. 
 So earnestly they listen to each word. 
 For he had roamed in many lands, and well 
 Of distant climes, and foreign scenes, could tell.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 61 
 
 Of the vast desert's ever-moving sand ; 
 Of midnight shipwreck on a rocky strand ; 
 And " wild adventures both by sea and land." 
 And then would he describe those Indian isles. 
 Where summer in her loveliest aspect smiles. 
 Where brightest flowers, and groves of feathery palm. 
 Are miiTored in the oceans azure calm. 
 Yet most they loved to listen, as he told 
 Of holy Martyrs, and the Saints of old. 
 The chosen shepherds of the Christian fold ; 
 Then, such the heavenly lustre of his eye — 
 His earnest language — his calm dignity — 
 That many there believed that he had been. 
 Himself an actor in each glorious scene. 
 
 Time passed away, and, at the Count's behest. 
 The Pilgi'im still remained an honoured guest ; 
 For Raymond, won by his benignant air, 
 To him confided all his secret care ; 
 And trusted to his management, and skill. 
 To find a remedy for every ill.
 
 62 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 And as beneath the sun's o'erpowering ray, 
 The dusky mists of morning roll away, 
 Even so the woes of that unhajjpy land. 
 Vanished beneath his wise, and skilful hand ; 
 And over scenes, so late to grief a prey. 
 Plenty and peace once more resumed their sway. 
 
 Though undiscerning men might deem it strange. 
 So short a time, could work so great a change. 
 Justice, and prudence, were the only arts. 
 He used to win those wild and wayward hearts. 
 He curbed the oppressor, soothed the sufferer's grief. 
 And to the needy, gave well-timed relief. 
 And when, in answer to his prayers was given. 
 Abundant harvests, from benignant heaven. 
 People, and prince, alike his influence blessed. 
 And that long troubled land at length had rest. 
 
 His labours for the people at an end. 
 His care was now to serve his princely friend.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVEXCE. 63 
 
 All State affairs were placed at his command, 
 And all he ruled with firm, yet gentle hand. 
 Desj^ite the clamours of a hungry crew, 
 He gave promotion to the worthy few ; 
 He checked the court dependant's lavish waste ; 
 And, guided by refined, and perfect taste. 
 With gems of art the princely palace gi'aced : 
 He sought all artizans for skill renowned. 
 And for their industry em2)loyment found. 
 Until, beneath the wisdom of his sway. 
 The long lost arts of jieace revived at Aix. — 
 And from each land the wise and good resort. 
 To add new sjilendour to Count Raymond's court. 
 
 Yet not in lighted halls, or festive bowers. 
 The holy pilgxim passed his leisure hours ; 
 But in the culture of those living flowers. 
 Who like four sister rosebuds side by side. 
 Grew up, and bloomed in youthful beauty's pride. 
 Count Raymond's lovely daughters — and to them, 
 The gi-aceful scions of a noble stem,
 
 64 MAEGtJEEITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 His fondest cares were turned. — At eventide 
 Oft was he seen, those dear ones by his side. 
 Seated perchance beneath some sjKeading tree. 
 Whilst they stood round him, listening breathlessly. 
 To the deep wisdom from his lips that fell. 
 Or ancient legends that he told so well. 
 And 'twas in truth a strangely beauteous sight 
 To mark that happy group — Apelles might 
 Have thus pourtrayed, in Athens' classic bowers. 
 Old Time surrounded by the rosy Hours ; 
 Or thus, in later days, might Guido paint 
 Bright seraphs hovering round some aged saint. 
 
 There first in beauty as in age, was seen 
 The lovely Marguerite, with brow serene ; 
 The queenly Alianore, so proudly fair ; 
 And bright eyed Sancia, with her golden hair ; 
 And fairy Beatrix, that joyous child. 
 Who in her irladness like a sunbeam smiled. 
 Such were his pu])ils, and each jJvincely maid, 
 Full well the kind preceptor's care repaid,
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 65 
 
 Till through Provence their wondrous learning rung, 
 And countless bards their graceful beauty sung. 
 
 One might have deemed such service had embued, 
 Count Raymond's heart with endless gi'atitude ; 
 But sad experience, since the world began. 
 Has shown how weak, how changeable, is man : 
 How princes' favour, which perchance has cost 
 A life's exertions, in an hour is lost. 
 And thus it now befel. — In Aix were those 
 Who long had been the holy Pilgrim's foes ; 
 Whether from private pique their hatred rose. 
 Or that they envied his well earned renown. 
 And on his greatness hoped to build their own : — 
 These men contrived by many an artful wile, 
 To gain the fickle Raymond's favouring smile ; 
 By basest falsehoods then they made appear 
 That the good man, to prince and people dear. 
 Was scarcely what he seemed, but well could hide 
 Neath pilgn-im's russet weed, his boundless pride : 
 That treasure for the public service meant. 
 To aid his own ambitious schemes was spent ;
 
 66 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Nay more — when he administered the laws. 
 The heaviest bribe would always win the cause. 
 These were their accusations — strange to tell. 
 That Raymond who had proved his worth so well. 
 Forgetting all, should patiently have heard 
 The monstrous charges that his foes preferred. 
 And not alone have heard them — but believed. 
 And each vile calumny as truth received. 
 
 And now within the council hall arraigned. 
 His spotless fame by base suspicion stained. 
 Such was his dauntless mien, his as2)ect high. 
 His false accusers quailed beneath his eye. 
 Calmly he listened to each charge, nor spoke 
 Till all were ended — then, thus silence broke — 
 " Count Raymond when these halls 1 entered first, 
 " I found the realm by war and famine cursed ; 
 " Her nobles, and her serfs, alike distressed ; 
 " Her prince, on ruin's brink, with woe oppressed, 
 " Behold the contrast now ! — a prosperous state — 
 " Her commerce flourishing, her nobles great.
 
 MAKGUERITE OF PKOVENCE. 67 
 
 " Her peasantry from care and sorrow free ; — 
 
 " And for her prince — a well filled treasury, 
 
 " A court — the envy of the mightiest kings, 
 
 " A name — with which admiring Europe rings. 
 
 " Whence comes this sudden change — Count Raymond tell ? 
 
 " If thine the art of governing so well, 
 
 " Say, from what channel flowed the golden tide, 
 
 " That every exigence of state supplied, 
 
 " Or fed — so say my foes — my boundless pride ? 
 
 " For them, poor shallow knaves, who meanly hate 
 
 " That high renown they ne'er can emulate, 
 
 " I leave them to their infamy, nor deiijn 
 
 " To answer, or refute, their charges vain. 
 
 " But, Count, from thee ! whom I so well have served, 
 
 " Such vile suspicions how have I deserved "^ 
 
 " What are the riches of this world to me, 
 
 " A pilgrim here and vowed to poverty ? 
 
 " To thee my innocence will soon appear — 
 
 " In proof receive this scroll, succinct and cleaf 
 
 " Each denier I have spent is written here. 
 
 " And having thus my stainless honour proved, 
 
 " And from thy mind each humbling doubt removed, 
 
 F 2
 
 68 MARGUERITE OV PROVENCE. 
 
 " Farewell ! Count Raymond ! I must hence away ; 
 " Distrusted once, I may no longer stay ; 
 " Resume thy delegated power again — 
 " My scrip and staff are all that I retain." 
 Vain were the Count's excuses — vain his prayer. 
 The Pilgrim would consent to sojourn there ; — 
 He hade farewell, with calm yet lofty mien. 
 And ne'er again within those walls was seen. 
 
 Near Raymond's palace was a woody glade, 
 Where beech and lime trees, threw their welcome shade 
 O'er mossy banks, where flowers of every hue. 
 And gi'aceful ferns, in wild profusion grew ; 
 Whilst at their feet, with gently murmuring sound, 
 A crystal fountain flung its showers around. 
 Thither the aged pilgi-im took his way. 
 Attracted by the sound of childish play. 
 And sheltered from the noontide's fervid blaze. 
 By those high trees, he paused, unseen to gaze 
 Upon that lovely group. — The elder one. 
 O'er whom perchance some fourteen springs had shone,
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 69 
 
 Upon the flowery bank was half reclined 
 
 Beneath a linden tree, which as the wind 
 
 Shook its light blossoms, wafted through the air 
 
 Its dreamy fragrance. — How surpassing fair 
 
 Was that slight graceful girl ! yet you might trace 
 
 In the calm beauty of her youthful face, 
 
 A thoughtfulness beyond her years, as she 
 
 Were conscious of the lofty destiny 
 
 Of her eventful life ; and yet I ween — 
 
 Could her soul's hidden thoughts have then been seen — 
 
 They were not of the future ; all her heart 
 
 Was in that page, wherein the writer's art 
 
 Pourtrayed in earnest and pathetic strain. 
 
 The woes of persecution's iron reign. 
 
 And Christian martyr's sufferings — oh ! how pale 
 
 Grew her bright cheek, as she perused the tale 
 
 Of holy Catharine's unchanging faith, 
 
 Triumphant still o'er torture, and o'er death : 
 
 And as she traced her progress to the sky. 
 
 And learnt from her example how to die. 
 
 From her young spirit every trace of earth. 
 
 Had vanished far — she scarcely heard the mirth.
 
 70 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Of her gay sisters, as the joyous sound 
 Of their light girlish laughter floated round ; — 
 Now from the fountain, at each other flinging 
 The glittering dew drops, and now sweetly singing 
 Snatches of old Provencal songs, and then 
 Chasing each other through the flowery glen 
 With fawn-like swiftness, whilst their sportive glee 
 Rose on the air in blithest harmony,' — 
 The music of young hearts untouched by care : 
 Then, whilst the soft breeze fanned their glossy hair. 
 Laughing, and breathless with their play, they stood. 
 Beneath the shelter of the o'er-arching wood. 
 
 Soon all their meiry sport was at an end. 
 For they at length perceived their aged friend ; 
 And as they gathered round him every trace 
 Of their bright smiles was gone, for in his face 
 They read his soul's deep gaief — and Marguerite, 
 Who now had joined them, asked in accents sweet 
 His cause for sorrow. — " Dear ones of my heart !" 
 The Pilgrim answered, " I must hence depart —
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 71 
 
 " Unworthy men your father's ear have gained, — 
 
 " With basest calumnies my honour stained ; 
 
 "And though, at length, my innocence is clear, 
 
 " Suspected once I may not linger here. 
 
 " Yet though no more beneath these groves we meet, 
 
 " No more the placid hour of evening greet, 
 
 " Though absent far, think not that I forget — 
 
 " My fondest thoughts shall hover round you yet ; 
 
 " Your earthly welfare still shall be my care ; 
 
 " For you shall still ascend my fervent prayer. 
 
 " Lay well to heart the precepts I have taught — 
 
 " Yours be each noble deed, each generous thought ; 
 
 " Be virtuous still ; sincere in piety ; — 
 
 " In all things worthy your high destiny — 
 
 " For dignities that seldom may befal 
 
 " The proudest of the earth, await you all ; 
 
 "■ A regal crown each fair young brow shall grace, — 
 
 " Each shall be mother of a princely race. 
 
 " And loftiest of all thy fate — sweet girl — 
 
 " My Marguerite, my pure and priceless pearl, 
 
 " Bright shall be thy career, beloved child ! 
 
 " Full many lands shall bless thy virtues mild ;
 
 72 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 " Honours and wealth, shall be at thy command, — 
 
 " Earth's mightiest monarch shall entreat thy hand: 
 
 " Yet though so high thy lot, thou mayst not be, 
 
 " From human grief or human perils free ; 
 
 " Yet be not then dismayed, thy childhood's guide 
 
 " Will not abandon thee, should ill betide. 
 
 " And now, farewell ! may heaven benignant shed, 
 
 " Its holiest gifts on each bright, beauteous, head ! 
 
 " May every happiness the world can give, 
 
 "Be yours, whilst in this mortal state you live, — 
 
 " And when at length, you pass from earth away, 
 
 " That bliss be yours that cannot know decay !" 
 
 Whilst yet in silent grief the maidens stood. 
 He disappeared within the shadowy wood, — 
 And never, from that memorable day. 
 Was seen again within the walls of Aix.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 73 
 
 PART II. 
 
 In Paris now is held high festival. 
 And knights and dames are met in bower and hall; 
 Loud peal the bells, and in each busy street. 
 Gay throngs of citizens and peasants meet ; 
 With gorgeous tapestry each house is hung. 
 And freshest flowers are in the pathway flung ; 
 Around their youthful King his nobles ride. 
 To pay due honom* to the Royal Bride. 
 
 Now as the guards in martial pride advance. 
 Towards that bright group is turned each eager glance 
 Where (midst the fairest — noblest — dames of France) 
 Arrayed in richest robes, and jewels rare, 
 A regal circlet binding her dark hair.
 
 74 MAEGUEEITE OF PBOVENCE. 
 
 With blushing cheek, and mild yet stately mien. 
 
 On snow-white palfrey rides the lovely Queen. 
 
 Then with what shouts, the assembled thousands greet. 
 
 Their pearl of pearls — their beauteous Marguerite ! 
 
 What hearty acclamations rend the skies ! 
 
 And as they die away fresh plaudits rise — 
 
 For now the citizens can recognize. 
 
 In the majestic Lady by her side. 
 
 Queen Blanche's eagle eye, and brow of pride. 
 
 As through the loyal, and admiring throng. 
 The bright procession slowly passed along. 
 What whispered praises of the youthful pair, — 
 How royal was his mien ! her face how fair ! 
 What invocations to the saints above. 
 To bless their lives with happiness and love ! 
 And then they praised the stately Regent Queen — 
 How wise, how fortunate, her choice had been 
 Of their young Monarch's bride — her care how great 
 For France's glory, and her high estate — 
 Her wisdom how profound ! Thus passed away 
 In popular applause Ihat pageant gay.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 75 
 
 Now moving in a more exalted sphere. 
 Her gentle virtues brighter still a])pear ; 
 The Monarch's darling, and his people's pride. 
 All honoured, all adored, the Royal Bride. 
 And well did Marguerite's pure spirit find 
 An answering feeling in her husband's mind ; — 
 Rarely is wedlock such as theirs, the fate 
 Of princes, who are doomed to choose a mate 
 Less from affection, than the rules of state : — 
 In active charity, in Christian zeal. 
 One holy impulse seemed they both to feel ; 
 Virtue their study, piety their guide. 
 Mid all the splendid scenes of courtly pride. 
 
 Though in her Lord's sincere affection blest. 
 All was not sunshine in her gentle breast. 
 For haughty Blanche, who long had ruled alone, 
 " But ill could brook a rival near the throne ;" 
 And much she feared, lest Marguerite should sway 
 The Monarch's heart, and her own power decay : 
 Thus through the early years of wedded life. 
 She vexed the youthful Queen with ceaseless strife ;
 
 76 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Who meekly her imkindiiess bore, and strove 
 With many an artless wile, to win her love. 
 
 As years passed on. Queen Blanche perceived how vain 
 Her apprehensions of a rival reign, 
 For Marguerite, the gentle, and the kind. 
 In court intrigues no happiness could find ; 
 Above all others formed to grace a throne. 
 O'er nobler brow a diadem ne'er shone — 
 Yet brightest in the pageantry of power. 
 Far more she loved the calm domestic hour. 
 When freed from all restraints of regal pride. 
 Her children round, her husband by her side. 
 Gladly she hailed the placid eventide : 
 Oft would she then in silvery accents tell. 
 Of all the scenes she loved in youth so well ; 
 Of that good pilgrim, who so strangely came. 
 To save Provence from misery and shame — 
 Of his benignant mien, his virtues high. 
 His wondrous learning, fervent piety — 
 How, with even more than parent's care, he taught 
 Their infant minds, and trained each rising thought,
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 77 
 
 Until that mournful, well remembered day, 
 When he for ever left the court of Aix. 
 How for lon§ years. Count Raymond sought to trace 
 His name, his lineage, or his dwelling place, — 
 But sought in vain : and how the peasantry 
 Believed that some blessed saint had left the sky. 
 To rescue them from grinding poverty. 
 
 Then would she teach her children all the lore 
 Of heavenly wisdom, that he taught before. 
 And mingling precept sage, with fond caress. 
 She led them in the paths of holiness ; 
 And thus in pleasing cares she passed her life, — 
 A happy mother, and beloved wife. 
 
 But the fair Queen to distant lands must roam,- 
 Must leave her cliildron, aiul her happy home — 
 Still higher duties call her hence — for now 
 King Louis to redeem a solemn vow. 
 In a sad hour of pain and danger made, 
 Throughout the land proclaims a new Crusade. —
 
 78 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Princes, and barons, in their feudal pride. 
 Flock round the Oriflamnoe, on every side. 
 Unmindful of past conflicts, hand in hand 
 Were seen the sons of many a rival land ; 
 Roused by that holy cause, with one accord 
 The fair haired Saxon, and his Norman lord. 
 Swelled the vast throng ; their border feuds forgot 
 The fierce Northumbrian joined the wily Scot; 
 Near the athletic Swede — the ruddy Dane — 
 Was seen the dark-eyed child of sunny Spain ; 
 The soft Italian left his vallies fair ; 
 The Gennan's countless tribes of war were there. 
 
 And not alone those haughty chieftains came ; 
 For many a fair princess, and noble dame. 
 Leaving their proud luxurious homes afar. 
 Dared all the hoiTors of a distant war. 
 And lovelier far than all, the gentle Queen 
 With her bright sisters in her train, was seen 
 Cheering the assembled host with smile serene. 
 Yet deem not that her spirit mild and pure. 
 Could war's wild havoc, even in thought, endure ;
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 79 
 
 Her hope, hei only motive, was to free 
 The Christian poor, from Moslem tyranny ; 
 That safely they might roam through Palestine ; — 
 Unharmed might worship at the Holy Shrine. 
 Thus, filled with pious zeal, she little thought 
 How dearly such advantage must be bought ! 
 
 In all the pride of war, and manhood's strength, 
 The troops, at fair Marseilles embarked at length ; 
 Eager on Syria's holy ground to stand. 
 And free from Arab sway the sacred land — 
 With loud exulting shouts they leave the shore. 
 So few among their ranks shall visit more. 
 'Twere vain to tell the oft-repeated tale 
 Of mid-sea dangers, and the stonny gale. 
 The foaming billows, and the wind's wild roar, 
 Which nobler strains have oft described before. 
 Behold them then, their tedious voyage past. 
 Anchored on Egypt's sultry coast at last. 
 
 Scarce had their vessels touched that hostile shore. 
 When to the beach the Arab legions pour,
 
 80 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 With dauntless pride dispute each foot of ground, 
 And deal back blow for blow, and wound for wound.- 
 Thrice, the Crusaders landed on the plain — 
 And thrice, were driven to their ships again. 
 But now the Monarch braves the rushing tide, 
 A thousand warriors hasten to his side, — 
 They gain the strand — in ranks compact they kneel- 
 And fonn a bristling wall of polished steel ; — 
 The Mamelukes with impetuous force advance, — 
 But checked by many a keen and glittering lance. 
 In wild dismay each chieftain turns his steed. 
 And from the battle flies with frantic speed ; — 
 Hides his disgrace amid the desert sands. 
 And leaves his city in the victor's hands. 
 
 And now as fall the deep'ning shades of night. 
 With many a cheerful blaze the shore is bright ; 
 Whilst sounds of triumph through the army ring, 
 And joyous shouts to hail the heroic King ! 
 Unmoved he listens to their wild applause. 
 His own renown merged in his sacred cause;
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 81 
 
 He values but that signal victory, 
 
 That he may set the Christian captives free, 
 
 May plant the cross on Damietta's walls. 
 
 And spread the heavenly truth through Paynim halls. 
 
 The last bright stars in heaven were shining yet. 
 When on the plain the Christian leaders met: 
 They enter now the vanquished city's gate, 
 But not in gorgeous robes, or regal state ; 
 Their dazzling armour hid by pilgrim's vest, 
 And bearing each the cross upon his breast. 
 With head uncovered, and unsandaled feet. 
 Slowly they pass through each deserted street. 
 Then to the Mosque the pious thousands pour — 
 A Christian temple now — a Mosque no more — 
 And there in humble gx-atitude they kneel, 
 Whilst through the pillared aisles the hymns of triumph 
 peal. 
 
 While good King Louis and his gallant host 
 Extend their sway o'er Egypt's palmy coast,
 
 82 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 With her attendant davnes, Queen Marguerite 
 In Damietta finds a cahu retreat. 
 Far from the din of war, her pitying soul 
 Throughout the city sheds its mild control ; 
 The suffering Moslems, with the Christians, share 
 Her kindest sympathy, her tenderest care, — 
 Alike to her their country, and their creed, — 
 She soothes their sorrows, and relieves their need ; 
 Frees the lone captive from his galling chain. 
 And sends him to his long lost home again ; 
 Till through the east resounds her virtue's fame. 
 And even the vanquished hless her gentle name. 
 
 Nor less exemplary, amid the strife 
 Of the wild war-field, was the Monarch's life — 
 In conquest like the storm's resistless force, 
 O'erwhelming all things in its headlong coui-se ; 
 Yet as the sunbeams, when the storm is o'er, 
 Return to cheer the deluged earth once more. 
 When war's tumultuous rage was at an end. 
 The conquered found in him a gracious friend.
 
 MARGUERITE UF PROVENCE. 83 
 
 Beneath whose influence, merciful, and mild. 
 Fear fled away, and peace, returning, smiled. 
 
 By nature fomied the regal sway to hold. 
 Wise in the council, as in conflict bold. 
 Blameless in conduct, as in wit refined. 
 His warriors bowed before his master mind. 
 Yet, whilst they gladly hailed him, in the field, 
 At once the Christian army's sword, and shield. 
 His bright example proved, alas ! in vain, 
 Within due bounds that army to restrain. 
 For now returned to Damietta's strand. 
 Lords of the sea, and conquerors on the land. 
 That mighty host, with victory elate. 
 And all unconscious of impending late. 
 Disdained his lenient rule. Those warlike bands 
 Stoutly resist their Sovereign's just commands. 
 And faithful to their feudal chiefs alone. 
 Obeying them, all other power disown. 
 Mad with success they set at nought the laws, — 
 Their fame forgetting, and their sacred cause,
 
 84 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 The Christian leaders plunged in vices wild, — 
 That had disgraced the desert's barharous child. — 
 Till grown supine 'neath Egypt's burning breeze. 
 And sunk in pleasures, and luxurious ease. 
 To every sense of shame, and honour dead. 
 Their martial ardour seemed for ever fled ; 
 Whilst fever's dreadful power their ranks assailed. 
 To check whose rage no human art availed. 
 The Arab tribes who groaned beneath their sway. 
 Beheld with joy their danger and dismay ; 
 Hovered around their camp by night and day. 
 Attacked their weakest points with sword and 
 
 flame, 
 Then to the desert fled, from whence they came. 
 Defied pursuit, and, swifter than the wind. 
 Laughed at the steel-clad hosts they left behind. 
 
 King Louis and his nobles sought in vain 
 To force their foes to meet them on the plain ; 
 But Melexala, chieftain bold and wise. 
 Would not risk all in one rash enterprize ;
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 85 
 
 By wily stratagems, and coy delay. 
 
 He shunned the fight, and kept his foes at bay ; 
 
 Then feigning flight, allureLl them from the strand. 
 
 To the far desert's wild and waveless sand. 
 
 And when, o'erwhelmed beneath that bm-ning sky, 
 
 And worn with famine, daily hundreds die. 
 
 Awake to all the hoiTors of their fate. 
 
 They would retrace their steps — alas, too late ! 
 
 The Arab Chieftain's artifice succeeds. 
 
 He haunts their pathway, and their march impedes. 
 
 Then by his summons roused, throughout the land 
 
 The Moslem nations flock to his command ; 
 
 The swarthy Moor his skilful archers leads — 
 
 The desert warriors on their fiery steeds — 
 
 With the wild Nubians, haste to swell his ranks. 
 
 And drive the Christians from Nile's sacred banks. 
 
 Now as those fated Legions cross the tide. 
 The word is given — attacked on every side, 
 Vain is their boasted strength, their martial pride !
 
 86 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Unnumbered corses choak the oozy flood, 
 Whose placid waves ran crimson with their blood. 
 Their Monarch, ever foremost in the fight. 
 Rallies their sinking hopes, and checks their flight. 
 Till worn with toil, and faint with many a wound. 
 He sinks exhausted on the blood-stained ground — 
 Becomes the Moslem's unresisting prey. 
 The proudest trojihy of that dreadful day. 
 Their leaders fallen, those who yet remain 
 In frantic terror fly across the plain. 
 And, favoured by the evening's deepening shades. 
 Escape at length the Arabs' murderous blades. 
 
 The few, who after that disastrous fray. 
 To Damietta's shelter found their way. 
 Such direful tidings of the conflict bore. 
 That hope seemed banished from that fatal shore. 
 And through the desolate city, where of late 
 Reigned but the pomp of power, and regal state. 
 Was heard the mourners broken-hearted wail ; 
 And high-born dames, with woe, and watching pale,
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 87 
 
 Sat thi'ough that gloouiy nighty half wild with fear. 
 Deeming each sound the invading Moslem near. 
 
 Mouraful to all, yet sadder far had been 
 That night of horror to the unhappy Queen ! 
 Scarce had her royal infant seen the light, 
 When came the news of that disastrous fight — 
 She shrieked not — fainted not — when in her ear. 
 Her weeping damsels breathed their tale of fear ; 
 But lay for hours, silent and motionless. 
 As turned to marble by her woe's excess. — 
 Then all the scenes and sounds of days gone by. 
 Rushed o'er her wandering spirit vividly : — 
 The chambers where in infancy she played ; 
 The gardens where her youthful footsteps strayed ; 
 The sparkling fountain and the green wood shade ;- 
 Her Mother's gentle tones, her Father's smile. 
 And her gay Sisters' songs, by turns beguile 
 Her feverish fancy. — By her Hero's side 
 She stands once more, a fair and happy bride ; 
 Her children too in artless beauty bright 
 Around her play in childhood's wild delight ;
 
 88 MAliGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 And he — he still is there, his clear dark eye 
 Beaming on her, and them, so tenderly — 
 Oh happy past ! oh j^resent full of pain ! 
 Perchance they ne'er shall meet on earth again. 
 Where is he now — her life's bright guiding star ? 
 A friendless captive — wounded — absent fai 
 From all he loves — oh ! soul-subduing gjief ! 
 Beyond all hope of rescue or relief! 
 
 And then arose to heaven her fervent prayer. 
 For strength her weary lot of woe to bear; 
 A prayer whose simple, earnest accents, brought 
 Her girlhood's scenes once more before her thought ; 
 For it was one her Pilgrim-friend had taught 
 In those blest days of happy calm content. 
 When scarce she knew what grief or suffering meant. 
 " Oh were he here ! " in feeble tones she cried, 
 " To soothe my sorrows and my sleps to guide" — 
 Even as she spoke a shriek of wild surprise 
 Burst from her lips — for there — before her eyes 
 The Pilgrim stands — his venerable face 
 Unaltered in its calm majestic grace, —
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 8J) 
 
 Can it be real — or have despair and pain 
 Wrought a delusion on her aching brain ? 
 Ah no ! he speaks — how does her heart rejoice 
 Once more to hear that well remembered v'oice ! 
 
 " Beloved one ! " cried the Pilgrim, dry thy tears, 
 " Dismiss thv woman's weakness, woman's fears : 
 " Thou, only thou, canst set the captive free — 
 " His life, his liberty, depend on thee. 
 " Whilst thus thou mourn'st in useless agony, 
 " The Genoese would from the city fly, 
 " And wait impatiently the coming day, 
 " To bear their treasures and their arms away. 
 " Take then thy princely infant in thy arras, 
 " And strong in holy virtue's awful channs, 
 " Address those factious chiefs — adjure them then 
 " By all they love — as they are Christians — men — 
 " By all they prize on earth — or hope in heaven — 
 " As at the last they trust to be forgiven — 
 " True to their knighthood, and their faith to be, 
 " Nor slain their fame by basest treachery.
 
 90 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 " And thou sweet daughter, be no more dismayed ; 
 " Summon thy strength and prudence to thy aid, 
 " And pray to heaven for power, and skilly to guide 
 " Those headstrong warriors, in their path of pride. 
 " For ere yon orb in silvery radiance bright, 
 " Again shall shine a slender thread of light — 
 " Trust thou in God — thy loving Lord shall be, 
 " Restored to honour, liberty, and thee ! — 
 " And now farewell my child ! we meet once more 
 " Ere yet thy pilgrimage on earth is o'er !" 
 She would have answered, and implored his stay — 
 But like a vision he had passed away. 
 
 Whilst yet to mute bewilderment resigned. 
 Pondering his wondrous tidings in her mind. 
 She hears that signal, known of late too well. 
 The heavy clangour of the Tocsin bell. — 
 Roused from her trance by that portentous sound. 
 In eager haste she calls her maidens round ; 
 They raise her from her couch, and then prepare 
 To deck her stately form with costliest care. 
 With robes of royalty, and jewels rare;
 
 MAEGUEEITE OF PROVENCE. 91 
 
 At length attired in all her rich atray, 
 
 In calm resolve she waits the dawning day. 
 
 Her Ladies now, aroused at her command. 
 In wild perplexity around her stand ; 
 Yet as they gaze upon the heroic Queen, 
 They gain new courage from her dauntless mien. 
 With steady accent, and unquailing eye, 
 She tells their danger, and its remedy; 
 And those who death to slavery prefer. 
 She bids prepare to brave the worst with her. 
 
 Even as she speaks, the sound of many feet. 
 And clamorous voices, echoing from the street, 
 Warn her the hour is come, when that fierce band- 
 Must stoop beneath a woman's weak command. 
 Or all be lost. — She breathes a fervent prayer — 
 Then rises with determined fearless air ; — 
 Sancia and Beatrix on either side, 
 With tenderest care her feeble footsteps guide. 
 Whilst Alice of Toulouse, Alfonso's bride,
 
 92 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Pensively beautiful, with aspect mild. 
 Bears in her gi-aceful arms the sleeping child. 
 Thus unprotected, and unarmed they go, 
 To meet the lawless host that raves below. 
 
 From Syria's distant hills the early day, 
 Dispersing swift the lingering mists away. 
 O'er palmy shoves, and waters deeply blue. 
 Studded with snowy sails, its radiance threw ; 
 And in the city, o'er a motley crew 
 Assembled in the street ; now glancing bright 
 On the plumed helmet of the mail-clad knight ; 
 Revealing now a miserable train. 
 Squalid and wan, with poverty and pain ; 
 Now o'er a nuisy ill-conditioned crowd. 
 Of soldiers, suttlers, women, munnuring loud. 
 Pressing and jostling on their headlong way, 
 In all the insolence of servile sway. 
 Whilst here and there a sturdy group is seen. 
 Of veteran warriors, who with iron mien. 
 In silence gaze on that tumultuous scene.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 93 
 
 But see — they pause, — what means that sudden sound ? 
 The Queen ! the Queen ! re-echoes wildly round — 
 Arrested thus m mid cai'eer, they seem 
 Lost in dismay — she whom they fondly deem 
 A helpless sufferer, trembling in her bower. 
 Before them stands — radiant in beauty's power — 
 Arrayed in all the pomp of regal pride. 
 That could beseem a mighty monarch's bride : 
 A diadem enwreathes her stately brow, 
 On arms and bosom priceless jewels glow. 
 Her royal robes by golden girdle bound. 
 In folds of pui*ple splendour, sweep the ground. 
 And oh ! that fonn of loftiest majesty — 
 That ever-varying cheek — that flashing eye — 
 That lip, now curved in beautiful disdain. 
 Now slightly quivering, as with conquered pain ; 
 Those tones at first so faltering, weak, and low. 
 Yet gathering strength, and firmness, as they flow. 
 
 " Oh lost to honour ! recreant chiefs !" she cried, 
 " Is this your prowess — this your martial pride —
 
 94 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 " At the first note of danger, or defeat 
 
 " To seek your safety thus in base retreat ? 
 
 " Traitors yourselves, go trust the treacherous main — 
 
 " And when you reach your native shores again, 
 
 " Far from the noble, and the valiant fly, 
 
 " And hide in solitude your infamy ; — 
 
 " Let hodden gi-ey replace your glittering mail, 
 
 " And change your falchions for the peasant's flail. — 
 
 " There spend your worthless lives, degenerate slaves ! 
 
 " And sink unhonoured into nameless graves ! — 
 
 " Leave to our feeble and unpractised hands 
 
 " To save the city from the Arab bands., — 
 
 " Hence fly ! forsake us ! — that the world may say, 
 
 " Queen Marguerite and her ladies, dared the fray, 
 
 " When veteran warriors fled in fear away !" 
 
 She paused — then pealed to heaven the sudden cry, 
 " The Queen ! the Queen ! for her we'll fight — we'll die !" 
 Moved by the sound, her high-wrought spirits fail. 
 Her proud lip quivers, and her cheek grows pale. 
 Till on her babe her wandering glances rest — 
 She clasps him fondly to her throbbing breast, —
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 95 
 
 And then continues — " Since your hearts can feel 
 
 " Some touch of loyalty, of honest zeal, — 
 
 " For this dear habe, a precious boon from heaven, 
 
 " To soothe my soul's deep woe, in mercy given, — 
 
 " For these poor helpless tremblers, who rely 
 
 " On you to save them from captivity, — • 
 
 "And most of all for those, who, far away, 
 
 " Desponding pine, the haughty victor's prey : — 
 
 " If generous feelings can at length replace, 
 
 " The coward fears that led you to disgrace, 
 
 " Remain one little month — I ask no more — 
 
 " Then leave for ever this ill-omened shore ! 
 
 " Leave it in peace and honour — not as those 
 
 " Who fly ill terror from pursuing foes !" 
 
 Again their shouts re-echo to the sky — 
 " For Marguerite we'll fight ! for her we'll die !" 
 And loudly then by all the Saints they swear, 
 Her person to protect — her dangers share. 
 With looks subdued those haughty chiefs advance. 
 Awed by her dauntless port and eagle glance ;
 
 96 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Lowly before her chair of state they bow, 
 And, one by one, re})eat their solemn vow- 
 Ne'er to forsake her, till the King shall be 
 Once more, by rescue, or by ransom, free. 
 
 Thus their fierce spirits own the mild control 
 Of beauty, grace, and dignity of soul ; 
 And those who scorn the proudest monarch's sway, 
 A woman's weak, unwarlike, rule obey. 
 Whilst she — the lovely, gentle, Marguerite — 
 Whose mild benignity, and converse sweet. 
 In scenes of peace enthralled each gazer's heart — 
 With matchless skill performs the chieftain's part; 
 The wife, the mother, and the queen, combine 
 Within her breast, to form the heroine ; 
 And all the precepts that the pilgrim taught. 
 Of courage, self-command, and steady thought, 
 With humble trust in Heaven, imj^art their aid 
 To fix the impression that her charms had made. — 
 At her own cost the needy she maintains. 
 By wise diplomacy the waverer gains. 
 Inspires the timid, and the bold restrains.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 97 
 
 Their urgent peril for a time subdued. 
 Fears for the future on her thoughts intrude. 
 For though her vigilance and courage high. 
 Might still ensure a brief fidelity, — 
 There was not one, among that fickle crew, 
 Whose conduct sage, and spirit firm and true, 
 Could win the favour of the Arab Chiefs, 
 And end at once their dangers and their griefs ; — 
 Or fix the terms of ransom, and demand 
 The captives' freedom at the victor's hand. 
 
 Wearied with ceaseless care, in Marguerite's bower 
 The sisters sat, at sunset's tranquil hour ; 
 The lovely Queen upon her couch reclined, 
 In brief repose awhile her cares resigned ; 
 Whilst Beatrix and Sancia silently 
 Gazed on the smiling earth and cloudless sky. 
 The softly verdant plains, the stately trees. 
 And Nile's bright waters rippling in the breeze. 
 When in the distance suddenly appears, 
 Glittering in sunny light, a clump of spears ; — 
 
 H
 
 9b MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Not wildly speeding with the headlong force. 
 
 That marks the desert-sons' impetuous course. 
 
 But in the steady, firm, unhroken line. 
 
 Of veteran troops, inured to discipline ; 
 
 Whilst, floating o'er their ranks, young Sancia's eye. 
 
 The English Leopards, can at once descry — 
 
 " Sister, awake !" she cries with wild delight, 
 
 " Richard of Cornwall comes — my own true knight- 
 
 " Soon shall we hail our absent friends release — 
 
 " Soon shall we leave these fatal shores in peace !" 
 
 'Tis he, indeed — oh ne'er did hearts rejoice 
 So much before, to hear a well-known voice ! 
 Even Sancia to her husband!s arms restored. 
 Scarce with more joyous rapture hails her Lord, 
 Than do her sisters, who in him behold 
 A faithful champion, resolute and bold, 
 Whose valour, prudence, and well-earned renown. 
 From threatened siege might yet preserve the town, 
 Ensure their safe departure, and restore 
 The imprisoned Chiefs to liberty once more.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 99 
 
 Now from the warriors under his command, 
 The Queen selects a tried and trusty band, 
 Led by a gallant knight whose martial fame. 
 Might due distinction from the Moslems claim. 
 To Melexala's camp she bids them speed. 
 To aid the captives in their utmost need ; 
 And, armed with gold's all-powerful spell, complete 
 Their speedy rescue and secure retreat. 
 
 Despite brave Melexala's mournful fate, 
 The victim of his subjects' ruthless hate. 
 Despite the endless plots, the party rage. 
 That in their turns the Arab Chiefs engage, — 
 The Christian King's calm majesty of soul. 
 Unshaken fortitude, and self-control. 
 In sickness and adversity, had won 
 The hearts of those wild children of the sun ; 
 Who, though at variance in all else, agree 
 On honourable terms to set him free : — 
 These their conditions — Damiette's release — 
 A princely ransom — and unbroken peace. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 The captive Chiefs to Daraietta's shore 
 Again returned, their woes, their perils o'er, — 
 With what glad feelings does the Monarch greet 
 His own beloved, heroic, Marguerite ! 
 That happy welcome o'er, with tears of joy 
 He presses to his heart his infant boy, — 
 And deems that hour of perfect bliss repays 
 The toils and dangers of long anxious days. 
 
 Hastily now the Christian bands prepare 
 To leave a scene so fatal though so fair. 
 Richard of Cornwall summoned to his home. 
 With his loved Sancia braves the ocean foam. 
 To find ere long, beneath his native sky. 
 Storms still more fierce — a gloomier destiny. 
 Those motley troops by feuds and factions torn,- 
 Their various chiefs dispirited and worn, — 
 Stung by the memory of their late defeat. 
 In their own countries seek a safe retreat, — 
 Leaving the Monarch with a faithful few. 
 Alike to honour and religion true, 
 To plant the Cross — to preach the Faith Divine- 
 In the wild vales of Holy Palestine.
 
 PART III. 
 
 Long years had flown since that eventful day 
 Which saw them wend from Egypt's shores their way ;- 
 Years of such bliss as few on earth can know. 
 Yet saddened all too soon by deepest woe. — 
 To their own sunny land returned at last, 
 In blest tranquillity their lives were passed ; 
 Devoted to the lasting good of France, 
 Their care was still her interests to advance ; 
 To check the nobles' tyranny and pride, 
 In wisdom's path the ignorant to guide, 
 And shed Religion's light on every side : 
 They bade the long protracted tumults cease. 
 Encouraged commerce, and the arts of peace ; 
 Their friends and counsellors, a chosen band 
 Of wise and pious men from many a land,
 
 102 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Whose learning vast, and intellects refined. 
 
 At once exalt and civilize mankind. — 
 
 Till, parted by the King's mistaken zeal. 
 
 Fair Marguerite again was doomed to feel 
 
 That bitter agony of long suspense, 
 
 Which more than suffering, tortures every sense : 
 
 Yet soon, alas ! the woeful tidings burst. 
 
 Of all her aching heart had feared, the worst. 
 
 She wept the unhappy destiny of him. 
 
 Whose love for her nor time nor change could dim ; 
 
 She wept her gallant sons who by his side. 
 
 Struck by the plague, in prime of manhood died ; 
 
 She mourned two lovely daughters' early doom, 
 
 Who perished in their beauty's brightest bloom. 
 
 Yet whilst she grieved o'er the beloved dead. 
 
 She sorrowed not as one whose hope is fled — 
 
 But with the humble confidence that Heaven 
 
 Again would join the ties that death had riven, 
 
 That soon her earthly toils — her cares would cease. 
 
 And they should meet again in endless peace.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 103 
 
 And well her face, so purely, calmly fair — 
 Softened, not saddened, by the hand of care — 
 Bespoke her matchless constancy of mhid. 
 In good or ill to God's behests resigned. 
 Oh ! lovely as she was in childhood's days. 
 In girlhood's radiant bloon), or in the blaze 
 Of more matured perfection, ne'er before 
 That placid face more touching beauty wore. 
 'Tis true the soft dark hair that braided lay 
 Upon her stately brow, was tinged with grey, — 
 'Tis true the roses from her cheek had flown, — 
 Yet still her smile in undimmed sweetness shone, 
 Still calmly lustrous, that clear hazel eye. 
 And still her form retained its dignity. 
 
 And who shall tell the blessed bright career. 
 In which her life flowed on from year to year, — 
 How to the sick and poor her time was given, — 
 Her humble hopes, her fervent prayers, to heaven ; 
 How the afflicted, the distressed in mind, 
 In her a pitying friend could ever find ;
 
 104 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Of all the stately fanes at her command. 
 To God's high glory raised throughout the land 
 Of how Religion's pure and hallowed light, 
 In her reflected, seemed more calmly bright ; 
 And how her virtues mild, her conduct sage, 
 Restrained the fierceness of that warlike age. 
 
 Thus passed her pious, useful life away. 
 Till worn by nature's slow but sure decay, 
 The gentle Queen upon her death-bed lay. 
 Her brow was damjD with the cold dews of death — 
 Slowly and heavily she drew her breath — 
 Yet even then her soul's tranquillity. 
 Beamed in her placid smile, and heavenly eye : 
 Though whilst her pale lips moved in earnest prayer. 
 Across her brow might flit some trace of care. 
 The only earthly shadow on her mind 
 Was for the loved ones she must leave behind, — 
 For those dear friends, who plunged in grief profound. 
 And pale with watching, knelt in silence round.
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 105 
 
 At length the solemn Service for the Dying, — 
 Warned her that time for her was swiftly flying, — 
 That all the hopes, the fears, of earth were o'er. 
 And moi'tal gTiefs must vex her soul no more. 
 And with closed eyes so motionless she lay. 
 They almost deemed her spirit past away — 
 Suddenly, through approaching evening's gloom, 
 A flood of heavenly radiance filled the room. 
 And well-known accents hreathed distinct and clear, 
 " Fear not sweet daughter ! thy release is near" — 
 And there heside her stood in rohes of white — 
 His visage glorious with celestial light — 
 Her youth's beloved friend — with look benign 
 Above her head he held Salvation's Sign — 
 " Fear not," again he cried, " for thou hast trod, 
 " Through thy long life, the paths that lead to God — 
 " The trials of thy ])ilgrimage are past, — 
 " And Heaven's eternal peace is thine at last !" 
 
 Those who stood near, oft spoke in after time. 
 With tearful rapture, of the smile sublime
 
 lOG MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 That over Marguerite's pale features broke 
 When thus of heavenly rest the Pilgrim spoke. — 
 With more than mortal lustre gleamed her eye. 
 Whilst few — faint — words, of hope and triumph high. 
 Burst from her lips, as that refulgence bright 
 Vanished before the advancing shades of night. — 
 And when at length the tapers' feeble blaze, 
 Shed on the scene their dim sepulchral rays. 
 They found her dead, — that smile's seraphic grace 
 Still faintly lingering on her marble face. — 
 With the last gleam of that benignant light. 
 Her gentle soul had winged its homeward flight. 
 
 Long ages since her death had passed away. 
 
 And race succeeding race, in regal sway. 
 
 For good or ill, had ruled o'er sunny France. — 
 
 And oft when wearied with the merry dance. 
 
 The peasants, gathered round their hearths at night. 
 
 In tales of ancient days would take delight; — 
 
 They loved of good King Louis to relate, 
 
 The wild adventures, and the hapless fate ; —
 
 MARGUERITE OF PROVENCE. 107 
 
 The wondrous legend of that Pilgrim old. 
 
 And his mysterious visits too they told ; 
 
 Some deemed a blessed Saint, on wings of love 
 
 To succour man had left the realms above, — 
 
 Whilst some maintained that one of mortal race. 
 
 But rich in piety and Christian grace. 
 
 Had been permitted by the Povver Divine, 
 
 A bright example for the world to shine. — 
 
 Then of his royal Pupil would they speak, 
 
 And praise her pious deeds, her virtues meek, 
 
 For all declared that ne'er on earth was seen 
 
 So fair, so wise, so bountiful, a Queen : — 
 
 And parents taught their children to repeat. 
 
 With grateful love, the name of good Queen Marguerite.
 
 THE CONQUEROR'S DEATH BED. 
 
 The night breeze sighed through Gazna's halls, 
 And the moonlight shed its ray. 
 
 Where, by the fountain's cooling falls. 
 The dying Mahmoud lay. 
 
 Yet o'er parched lip, and aching brow. 
 
 The breezes play in vain ; 
 They cannot yield him comfort now. 
 
 Or cool his burning brain. — 
 
 His slaves had brought, at his command. 
 
 His countless treasures round ; 
 And the spoils of many a conquered land. 
 
 Lay scattered on the ground.
 
 THE CONaUERORS DEATH-BED. 109 
 
 There were sparkling jewels, rich, and bright. 
 Whose worth might scarce be told ; 
 
 And by virgin silver's moon-like light, 
 Glittered the ruddy gold. 
 
 There were costly garments, covered o'er 
 
 With the richest broderie ; 
 Cornelians bright from Yemen's shore ; 
 
 And pearls from India's sea. 
 
 Yet he gazed on that long cherished wealth 
 
 With sad, and restless eye : — 
 He knew it could not purchase health — 
 
 He felt that he must die. 
 
 Then scenes, and thoughts, of days gone by. 
 
 Which for long years had slept, 
 Came o'er his spirit vividly — 
 
 And the proud Victor wept. 
 
 " In the dazzHng blaze of fame, and power, 
 
 " In manhood's dauntless pride, 
 " How little thought I of this hour !" 
 
 The dying Chieftain cried.
 
 1 10 THE CONQUEEORS DEATH-BED. 
 
 " How many a long, and weary day. 
 
 And night of sleepless toil, 
 " In anxious care I have j3assed away, 
 
 " To win that worthless spoil ! 
 
 " I have spent the brightest years of life 
 
 " Unloving, and imloved; 
 " Whilst o'er the reeking field of strife, 
 
 " In stern delight, I roved." 
 
 "But where is now my dear bought fame ? — - 
 
 " What can it now avail, 
 " That, once, at Mahmoud's whispered name, 
 " The foeraan's cheek grew pale ? 
 
 " The bright dreams of my youth are past — 
 
 " I know that I must die — 
 " For life, and love, I have learnt, at last, 
 
 " Are what gold could never buy. 
 
 " I have mighty hosts at my command, 
 
 " To conquer, or to slay : — 
 " The flattenng slaves who round me stand, 
 
 " My slightest wish obey. —
 
 THE COXaUEEOR'S DEATH-BED. Ill 
 
 " Yet there is not one, on whose fond breast, 
 
 " My aching head may lie — 
 " Whose voice can charm my soul to rest, 
 
 " Or soothe my agony. 
 
 " There is not one, when I depart, 
 
 " Griefs bitter tears to shed — 
 " There is not one true, faithful, heart 
 
 " To mourn the mighty dead ! — " 
 
 At midnight's hour of solemn gloom 
 
 Mahmoud of Gazna died. — 
 And his warriors built his stately tomb. 
 
 In the palace of his pride. 
 
 Yet, even there, he could not rest, — 
 
 For, as ancient legends tell. 
 His spirit wanders, still unblest. 
 
 Round the wealth he loved so well.
 
 THE BATTLE OF ST. JAQUES. 
 
 They lay upon the battle field. 
 
 The dying and the dead. 
 Those who for their loved country's rights, 
 
 That day had nobly bled : 
 Of all that gallant host, not one 
 
 Remained to take the tale. 
 Of that day's fierce, and desperate strife. 
 
 Back to his native vale ! 
 
 They marched with high, and dauntless hearts, 
 
 To meet their Country's foes, 
 Whilst o'er their armour glancing bright, 
 
 The beams of morning rose ; 
 They wielded not their glittering brands 
 
 For conquest, or for fame, — 
 They fought to shield their mountain homes, 
 
 From slavery, and from shame.
 
 BATTLE OF ST. JAQUES. 1J3 
 
 But vain was that unequal strife 
 
 Before the foeman's power — - 
 They fell as falls the ripened corn. 
 
 Beneath the thunder shower — 
 And ere the approaching shades of night, 
 
 Had dimmed the golden west, 
 Upon that fatal blood-stained plain> 
 
 Those warriors lay at rest. — 
 
 A party of the conquering foe 
 
 Rode proudly o'er the plain, 
 And many a false, and cruel taunt^ 
 
 They heaped upon the slain : 
 And foremost in the group was one. 
 
 Who, sconi to manhood's name. 
 To fair Helvetia owed his birth, 
 
 Yet triumphed in her shame. 
 
 He looked upon that scene of death 
 
 With eye and brow unmoved, 
 Though many lay before him there. 
 
 Whom he in youth had loved ; — -
 
 1 J 4 BATTLE OF ST. JAQUES. 
 
 But nature's noblest feelings, all 
 Had left him when he sold. 
 
 His country's honour, and his own. 
 For a foreign tyrant's gold. 
 
 A smile was on his recreant lips 
 
 As scornfully he cried, 
 " Methinks that we at last have tamed 
 
 " The haughty Switzer's pride ! — 
 " No more shall Uri's giant sons, 
 
 " Or Berne's proud chiefs advance 
 " With mad presumptuous rage, to dare 
 
 " The chivalry of France !" — 
 
 Stretched on a heap of noble dead, 
 
 A dying wan'ior lay — 
 The life-blood, from his wounded side. 
 
 Was oozing fast away, — 
 Yet ere his spirit winged its flight. 
 
 Their boasting met his ear, 
 And burning vengeance filled the heart. 
 
 Of the dying Mountaineer.
 
 BATTLE OF ST. JAQUES. 115 
 
 He seized a huge, and ponderous stone — 
 
 A fragment of the rock 
 Torn from it's native mountain bed. 
 
 By the Alpine tempest's shock, — 
 Then hurled it with unerring aim. 
 
 And more than mortal force — 
 And prone to earth the traitor fell, 
 
 A crushed and hideous corse. 
 
 " Coward, and miscreant, lie there !" 
 
 Exclaimed the expiring chief, 
 " For never shall thine eyes behold 
 
 " Our injured Country's grief — 
 " Yet, fallen and helpless as she is, 
 
 " In God shall be our trust, 
 "To shield her from the conqueror's power, 
 
 " When we are laid in dust !" 
 
 A prayer for his beloved land 
 
 Rose with his latest breath. 
 
 As, with a bright triumphant smile, 
 
 He calmly sank in death, — 
 
 i2
 
 116 BATTLE OF ST. JAQUES. 
 
 The last of the devoted chiefs. 
 Who on that fatal day, 
 
 Won with their lives a glorious name. 
 Which ne'er shall fade away.
 
 THE 
 
 APPRENTICE PILLAR IN ROSLYN CHAPEL. 
 
 The sun was slowly sinking in the west. 
 Lighting ])roud Roslyn's towers with golden gleam, 
 And over nature's calm and lovely rest. 
 O'er wooded hill, and gently murmuring stream. 
 Fell like the radiance of some glorious dream ; 
 And through the chapel's painted window thrown, 
 In many coloured light, his parting heam 
 O'er sculptured arch, and column, brightly shone 
 Where, by his finished work, the Apprentice stood alone,
 
 118 THE APPKENTICE PILLAR. 
 
 II. 
 
 Scarce eighteen summers o'er his head had passed. 
 Slight was his form, his cheek was smooth and fair; 
 And as through painted glass, the sunbeams cast 
 A glory round his bright, and clustering hair. 
 You might have deemed some spirit of the air. 
 Or youthful saint descended from the sky, 
 Stood there in God's own shrine ; so free from care, 
 Or earthly stain, so calm the purity. 
 Of his high thoughtful brow, and brightly beaming eye. 
 
 III. 
 
 He gazed upon the wreaths of sculptured flowers 
 Which round that stately column proudly twined. 
 Fair as if culled from Flora's loveliest bowers. 
 Worthy to be in such a fane enshrined. 
 And as he gazed, across his youthful mind 
 Came bright and varied dreams — undying fame 
 With laurel wreath his temjDles seemed to bind — 
 And from his country, he at length might claim 
 Renown immortal, for a yet unhonoured name.
 
 THE APPRENTICE PILLAK. 119 
 
 IV. 
 
 He thought of her, within her lowly cot, 
 His widowed Mother, and his eye grew bright ; 
 For oh ! how different would be her lot. 
 When wealth and fame were his — and what delight. 
 What joy, that he could thus at length requite. 
 Her cares for him, in childhood's helpless years ! 
 At that bless'd thought, his soul's triumphant light 
 Flashed through affection's sweet, and holy tears, 
 Bright as the rainbow's light, midst summer showers 
 appears. 
 
 T. 
 
 And then he breathed a silent prayer, that Heaven 
 Would deign his humble efforts still to bless ! 
 And that his talents ever might be given 
 To virtue, and the cause of holiness ! 
 That, neither rendered haughty by success, 
 Nor fretful, if reverses doomed to feel. 
 But, mindful of his fellow men's distress. 
 That he might ever strive, with christian zeal, 
 To give the poor relief, the wounded heart to lical !
 
 120 THE APPRENTICE PILLAH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But hark ! what means that hurried step ?' tis he—^ 
 The Master Sculptor — to fair Scotland's shore. 
 From his long pilgrimage heyond the sea, 
 (At high St. Clair's behest) returned once more. 
 His mind enriched with much, and varied store. 
 Gained in his wanderings in many lands. 
 He fondly dreams at length his toils are o'er. 
 When lo ! before his eyes the column stands — 
 Wrought into perfect grace, by young untutored hands, 
 
 VII. 
 
 He gazed on all around, as in a trance 
 Of mute surprise, till that triumphant face. 
 Unconscious of all danger, met his glance — 
 Then boiled his mad'ning brain with passions base, 
 And, stung with disappointment, and disgrace. 
 He plunged his dagger in the stripling's breast — 
 Then, with wild cries, rushed from that holy place. 
 To roam the woods, a bye-word and a jest, — 
 To live a maniac, and die unpitied, and unblessed,
 
 THE APPRENTICE PILLAR. 121 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And the young victim of his jealous ire — 
 Mourn not for him, the highly gifted one ! 
 Who died while holy feelings could inspire. 
 His yet unsullied heart. — His race was run 
 In peace, and honour ; he had learnt to shun 
 The world's hase pleasures, and, in piety 
 To seek for joy. — And when his task was done. 
 He joined his kindred spirits in the sky. 
 To hymn his Maker's praise to all eternity.
 
 CATHERINE DE FOIX. 
 
 The streets of Pan at early morn. 
 
 Rang with the trumpet's martial somid, 
 
 And on the mountain breezes borne, 
 Navarre's proud banner floated round. 
 
 And as that small, but glittering band. 
 Wound slowly through the narrow street. 
 
 The high born Ladies of the land. 
 
 Came forth their Chiefs return to greet. 
 
 And midst the rest, in beauty bright, 
 
 Their Queen, de Foix's proud Lady came. 
 
 With braided tresses, dark as night, 
 And stately brow, and glance of flame.
 
 CATHERINE DE FOIX. 123 
 
 Though youth's bright bloom had fled, the high 
 
 And splendid beauty of her race. 
 Was in that dark and beaming eye, 
 
 And in that form of matchless gi-ace. 
 
 With woman's softest tenderness. 
 
 She took her husband's proffered hand, 
 
 As she inquired, with fond caress. 
 The tidings from her native land. 
 
 " In truth," he cried with careless mien, 
 
 " Navarre is now no longer cur's, 
 " But there are other lauds, I ween, 
 
 " Where we may pass our future hours ; 
 
 " In France the minstrel's song is gay, 
 " And sweetly sounds the wild guitar, 
 
 " And brightly blooms the rose of May, 
 " As mid the mountains of NavaiTe." 
 
 But, oh ! how changed that face so fair, 
 How slenily gleamed that eagle eye, 
 
 As, with flushed cheek, and haughty air, 
 She listened to her Lord's reply !
 
 124 CATHERINE DE FOIX. 
 
 *' If I had borne a knightly brand," 
 Thus dauntlessly the Lady spoke, 
 
 *' I ne'er had seen my native land, 
 " Enslaved beneath a foreign yoke ! 
 
 " If I had been Don John d'Albret, 
 " The chieftain of a warlike race, 
 
 " We never had beheld this day, 
 " Of bitter anguish and disgrace ! 
 
 " Oh, it were better far, Don John, 
 " To die upon the battle plain, 
 
 " Than, thus disgraced, to linger on, 
 " A wanderer's life of care and pain ! 
 
 " Oh woe ! to see my own Navan-e, 
 " Thus sunk in slavery and shame — 
 
 " But still more galling — sadder far — 
 "To mourn a husband's tarnished fame!"
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
 
 NAVARRETE EL MUDO 
 
 TO DONNA LEONOK DE CAKBILLO. 
 
 Oh, sorrow not for me, sweet Leonor ! 
 
 Nor fancy mine a sad, and gloomy lot. 
 The trials, and regrets of youth are o'er. 
 
 And now, returned to this my native spot. 
 To all the friends, and scenes beloved of yore, 
 
 Where earth's corroding cares assail me not. 
 Far from the busy haunts of pride and strife. 
 In calm contentedness, I pass my life. 
 
 I was not made to herd with other men — 
 To see the mirtli in which I cannot share ; 
 
 To watch the movements of their li])s, and then 
 Seek my own lonely chamber in despair —
 
 128 NAVARRETE EL MUDO. 
 
 My proper home, is the wild rocky glen ; 
 
 My atmosiihere, the pure untainted air ; 
 My comrades, nature's ever lovely forms. 
 Her placid sunlight, or her mighty storms. 
 
 Often I roam, at morning's earliest light. 
 
 Through the deeji woods, or by the rushing stream, 
 
 To gaze upon the leaves with dew-drops bright, 
 And smiling flowers, that greet the sun's first beam. 
 
 Each fairy bloom as lovely in my sight 
 As seraph faces seen in childhood's dream ; 
 
 And each appears it's dewy eye to raise 
 
 To heaven's unclouded arch, in grateful praise. 
 
 Fearing nor murderous shaft, nor treacherous snare. 
 The wary plovers round my footsteps fly ; 
 
 The keen-eyed crafty fox, from out his lair. 
 Looks a good morrow as I pass him by ; 
 
 Startled by my approach, the slumbering hare 
 Raises to mine her large dark wondering eye ; 
 
 For their accustomed boon the squirrels come. 
 
 And fear me not for like them, 1 am dumb.
 
 NAVARRE TE ELMUDO. 129 
 
 And in my home, my cat with stealthy pace 
 Glides round my chair, or in the sunny ray 
 
 Recumhent basks, or sits in matron grace. 
 
 Watching with looks demure her kittens play ; 
 
 Reclining at my feet, his chosen place, 
 My faithful spaniel lies the livelong day. 
 
 Following each movement with his earnest eyes. 
 
 As if his heart with mine could sympathize. 
 
 And often during noontide's sultry heat, 
 
 I seek the shade of some sequestered bower. 
 
 Where the clear streamlet gushes at my feet. 
 And round me blossoms many a fragrant flower ; 
 
 Stretched on the turf, in meditation sweet 
 How happily 1 dream away the hour, 
 
 Whilst in the sheltering foliage o'er my head, 
 
 The timid stockdove nestles without dread. 
 
 But most I love to wander forth alone. 
 
 Beneath the cool refreshing breeze of even, 
 
 To mark the pale yet lovely radiance thrown 
 
 O'er wood and hill, by those pure lights of heaven —
 
 130 NAVARRETE EL MUDO. 
 
 As my rapt spirit breathes their mystic tone. 
 To me what visions of delight are given ! 
 What phantoms bright in angel charms arrayed. 
 Flit gracefully athwart the enchanted shade ! 
 
 Then what triumphant moments oft are mine ! 
 
 Princes and Nobles in my studio stand. 
 And gaze with raptiue on the forms divine. 
 
 Which grow in life-like grace beneath my hand ; 
 On me what bright approving glances shine. 
 
 From those the best, the noblest in our land ! 
 And if I cannot hear their fervent praise, 
 Well can I mark their warm admiring gaze. 
 
 Oh is it not a blessed gift to me 
 
 Thus fancy's brightest dreams to realize ? 
 
 Daily beneath my pencil's touch to see. 
 Some new and beautiful creation rise — 
 
 Madonna's sweet and placid dignity. 
 
 Or holy Saint ascending to the skies ; —   
 
 And as 1 gaze, to feel that each may claim 
 
 Immortal honour for El Mudo's name.
 
 NAVARRETE EL MUDO. 131 
 
 And Other studies oft my thoughts engage. 
 For thanks to good Vicente's patient care. 
 
 Unsealed to me is learning's choicest page : 
 
 Now the bold Poet's heavenward flight I share, — 
 
 Now gi'avely ponder with some ancient Sage, 
 Or glean from classic lore her treasures rare ; — 
 
 And more than all, those blessed truths are mine. 
 
 Which through each page of Holy Scripture shine. 
 
 I read of holy Saints, and Sages old ; 
 
 Of Monarchs brave in war, in council wise ; 
 Of wily Statesmen, and of Warriors bold ; — 
 
 I read of those, whose genius bade arise 
 From senseless marble, forms of godlike mould ; — 
 
 Or those whose pencil could immortalize 
 Beauty's most fleeting channs, and give to grace 
 Long since decayed, a memory, and a place. 
 
 I read strange things of many a distant land, — 
 
 Of ruined temples, and gigantic towers,— 
 
 Of palm groves smiling amid boundless sand, — 
 
 Of gorgeous birds, and ever blooming flowers — 
 
 e3
 
 132 NAVARRETE EL MUDO. 
 
 Wonders like these I well can understand. 
 
 Nor start, as when I read of Music's powers. 
 Whose witching influence, the poets say. 
 Can move even rocks, and wildest natures sway. 
 
 Oh, what is Music ? — Is it like the hloom 
 
 That on the cheek of youthful beauty glows — 
 
 Is it like sunshine, or the rich perfume. 
 
 Breathed from the jasmine, or the lovely rose — 
 
 Or like the contrast sweet of light and gloom 
 To which the Painter's Art such magic owes — 
 
 Or is it like the pure, fresh, breeze in spring. 
 
 Which wakens to delight each living thing P 
 
 I cannot comprehend it — sound and voice 
 No answering feeling in my heart can raise — 
 
 But holy men declare the Saints rejoice 
 
 In realms above, to hymn the Eternal's praise; 
 
 And since a blameless life has been my choice, 
 I trust that when this earthly frame decays, 
 
 I too partaker in their bliss may be, 
 
 I too may share their heavenly harmony.
 
 NAVAERETE EL MUDO. 133 
 
 Then Lady, when such joys, such hopes are mine, 
 Deem not my life so sad and desolate. — 
 
 Shall I at my peculiar ills repine. 
 
 When son'ow still attends each mortal state ? 
 
 No ! let me rather bless the Power Divine, 
 And live in peace, contented with my fate ; — 
 
 Thankful for God's good gifts, nor envying those, 
 
 On whom more lavish bounty He bestows.
 
 LAMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF FERRARA. 
 
 She sat alone within her stately bower. 
 
 In the calm freshness of the evening hour; 
 
 Italia's bluest sky was o'er her shining, 
 
 And rose, and jasmine, round her lattice twining. 
 
 Loaded the air with fragrance : wild, and free. 
 
 Uprose the blackbird's vesper note of glee. 
 
 Whilst almost rivaling it's joyous sound. 
 
 Was heard the peasant's song. — And all around 
 
 Seemed happy — all save her, that mournful one ! 
 
 Who, in her loveless splendour, sat alone. 
 
 Yet she was young, and fair — so softly fair ! 
 
 With dark blue eyes, and braided auburn hair ; 
 
 But her pale cheek showed premature decay. 
 
 And grief had tinged those glossy locks with gi'ey. 
 
 In vain, for her, the peasant's song — in vain, 
 
 The blackbird poured to heaven his thrilling strain —
 
 LAMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF FERRARA. 135 
 
 She heeded not the fountain's murmuring sound, — 
 
 She heeded not the perfume wafted round. 
 
 From orange groves — Her thoughts were far away. 
 
 In those loved scenes, where, in her childish play. 
 
 She lead her young companions, hand in hand. 
 
 Through the bright gardens of her native land. 
 
 She sat in silence long, with tearful eye. 
 
 Watching the varying colours of the sky 
 
 Grow pale, and paler, till the golden light 
 
 Had vanished in the deepening shades of night — 
 
 " Oh ! like those bright, yet transient, hues," she said, 
 
 " The fond illusions of my youth are fled, 
 
 " And all the hopes of happiness I cherished, 
 
 "With those dear friends who lovedme best, haveperished! 
 
 " And I remain — to muse on long past days, 
 
 " When I have watched the sunset's glorious rays, 
 
 " In my own land — and he, the brave, the good, 
 
 " The noble Bourbon, then beside me stood — 
 
 " Before his wrongs had driven him from his home, 
 
 " An exile, in a foreign clime, to roam — 
 
 " Before the sad alternative he chose, 
 
 " To lead the armies of his country's foes.
 
 136 LAMENT Of THE DUCHESS OF FEERARA. 
 
 " Rather than be a heartless woman's slave ! — 
 " But he now sleeps in a dishonoured gTave, 
 " And branded with a traitor's hated name, 
 " By those who envied his once spotless fame." 
 
 " And thou, my Sister ! whose engaging smile, 
 " And gentle tones, could all my woes beguile, 
 " Thou too art gone — and yet I may not weep 
 " For thee, who, in thy last unbroken sleep, 
 " Art now at rest ! unkindness, care, or pain, 
 " Can never reach thy gentle heart again — 
 " And thou art hajipy now — as I shall be, 
 " When welcome death shall set my splnt free, 
 " And, every earthly care, and sorrow o'er, 
 " We meet in perfect bliss, to part no more !" 
 
 " Hard has been both our fates, sweet Claude ! yet thine, 
 
 " Less bitter, more endurable, than mine. 
 
 " For, midst thy sorrows, thou could'st always gaze 
 
 " Upon the scenes beloved in childhood's days ; 
 
 " Friends of our Line, the trusty and the tried, 
 
 " In weal or woe, were ever at thy side. —
 
 LAMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF FERRARA. 137 
 
 " Oh, sadder far, my lot ! there is not one 
 "Whose faith, or friendship, I can build upon — 
 " False hearts surround me ; and my Husband's love, 
 " Which I could prize all earthly gifts above, 
 " Is given to all save me — My Children taught, 
 " Even from their cradles, to conceal each thought, 
 " Love me not as their Mother — every trace 
 " Of happy childhood's free, and fearless grace, 
 '' Has been destroyed ; — and bitter is the pain 
 ' To feel, that even my love for them is vain !" 
 
 " If those who envy gi'andeur, could but know 
 
 " One half the misery, the excess of woe, 
 
 " That crushes the lone heart, of those whose fate 
 
 "It is, to wear the mockery of state, 
 
 " Without the power — when the ready smile 
 
 " Must deck the lips, though the sad heart the while, 
 
 " Is throbbing with unutterable grief, 
 
 " That in the tomb alone can hope relief — 
 
 " Oh, happier far the humble peasant's lot, 
 
 " At eve returning to her lowly cot, 
 
 " After a day of toil, again to meet
 
 138 LAMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF FERRAKA. 
 
 " Those she loves best, and in their converse sweet, 
 
 " To pass the happy hours, till evening's close 
 
 " Brings to that peaceful home profound repose. — 
 
 " Such tranquil happiness can never be 
 
 " The lot of those, alas ! who wear, like me, 
 
 " A princely crown — why was I horn so high ? — 
 
 " The storms that pass the lowly osier by, 
 
 " Wither the oak."— 
 
 " Yet I will not repine — 
 " I feel that happier days will yet be mine — 
 " I know, that He at length will hear my prayer, 
 " Who makes the friendless his peculiar care. — 
 " Again I shall behold my own loved home, 
 " Bright as in childhood's days ; my feet shall roam 
 " Through every favourite haunt of youth once more ; 
 " I shall behold the friends beloved of yore ; 
 " And kneel beside my Mother's tomb again. — 
 " And when this life of weariness, and pain, 
 " Draws to a welcome close, my latest sigh 
 " Shall be exhaled beneath jny native sky, 
 " And, freed from sorrow, I at last shall rest 
 "In death, with those I loved in life, the best."
 
 JUNOT TO NAPOLEON. 
 
 Peace ! peace ! oh give me peace ! 
 Bid this interminable warfare cease — 
 
 Yet not alone for me — 
 For my beloved Country, and for thee, — 
 
 For thee, my Emperor ! 
 Would that this desolating strife were o'er. 
 Why sacrifice, on mad ambition's shrine. 
 The energies of such a soul as thine ? 
 Thou wert not made alone, to wield the might 
 Of thy vast genius, on the field of fight ; 
 Oh, let thy Country's welfare, claim from thee, 
 One thought amid thy dreams of victory — 
 Think of the myriads, who for thee have died — 
 Think of the brave ones, fighting by thy side —
 
 140 JUNOT TO NAPOLEON. 
 
 Let not their faithful blood. 
 Be poured, for thy vain glory, like a flood ! — 
 
 Oh, whilst the 2)ower is thine, 
 Let peace, once more, upon our Country shine ! 
 
 And, for myself, I ask, 
 A short release from warfare's bloody task — 
 1 ask, the scanty remnant of a life. 
 Already prematurely old with strife ; 
 
 For, 1, at least, would die. 
 Within the bosom of my family ! 
 Even 1, the iron-hearted child of war, 
 I, who have vt'orshipped thy resplendant star. 
 And ever paid to thee, earth's mightiest one ! 
 Such homage, as the savage pays the Sun ; — 
 1, who for thee, and for my native land, 
 So many years have borne a warrior's brand ; — 
 
 Even I, implore for peace — 
 Let this exterminating warfare cease ! 
 
 Oh, by each glorious battle 1 have fought, — 
 By each distinction that my blood has bought, —
 
 JUNOT TO NAPOLEON. 141 
 
 By the deep scars 1 bear upon my breast, — 
 By anxious days, and nights devoid of rest, — 
 
 By every sacrifice 
 Of best affections, and domestic ties, 
 
 I know that I may claim. 
 Peace for my Country, with untarnished fame ! 
 
 Even now, my weary brain 
 Is throbbing with intolerable pain — 
 I feel that I am sinking — yet, for thee. 
 Beloved Chief! my latest prayer shall be — 
 And the last boon I ask of thee — is peace ! — 
 My Emperor ! — bid this direful warfare cease !
 
 ODE TO SLEEP. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA. 
 
 Oh gentle Sleep ! thou who in noiseless flight 
 Beatest so lazily thy downy wings. 
 Thy brow with blushing wTeatli of poppies crowned, 
 When the pure, fragrant, placid air of night 
 O'er all the earth its dreamy influence flings. 
 Come from the distant west's remotest bound. 
 
 And with thy sacred balm, 
 Oh soothe my aching eyes, and gently calm 
 The anguish of my heart — assuage my grief — 
 
 Grant me release from care — 
 Thou who alone canst bring desired relief, 
 
 Come to my humble prayer — 
 Come to my humble prayer, oh gentle Sleep ! 
 And in profound repose my senses steep.
 
 ODE TO SLEEP. 143 
 
 Oh blessed Sleep, thou choicest boon of heaven ! 
 Thou refuge sweet from misery, and pain ! 
 Beloved Sleep, to whose entrancing power, 
 Forgetfulness of all our woes is given ! 
 Who still'st the busy workings of the brain, 
 And giv'st severest pain one tranquil hour ! 
 
 How we suffer — even die — 
 Mysterious Sleep, when thou dost from us fly ! 
 How hard it is to banish from the mind 
 
 One grief when thou art gone ! 
 What joy in earth's possessions can we find 
 
 When thou hast from us flown ? 
 Then come, oh gentle, and beloved Sleep ! 
 And in profound repose my senses steep. 
 
 I know how swiftly thy benignant sway 
 Departs, when morning's pearly dew appears. 
 And the bright sunrise throws its radiant blaze 
 On all around. — How oft the early day 
 Has heard my sighs, and seen my burning tears. 
 And marked the overwhelming care that weighs.
 
 144 ODE TO SLEEP. 
 
 Upon my aching bi-ow ! 
 Then, gentle Sleep ! thy blessed influence throw 
 Over my couch ! oh wave thy downy wing. 
 
 Upon soft zephyrs borne ! 
 And come, before the hours, swift passing, bring 
 
 The bright unwelcome morn ! 
 Come, whilst the cool night breeze remains, oh Sleep ! 
 And in profound repose my senses steep. 
 
 A wreath, oh Sleep ! of thy most favourite flowers 
 I oflfer thee, that thou should'st o'er me fling 
 Thy soothing sj^ell, and on my weary eyes 
 Let the soft breezes play, whose balmy powers 
 Are gathered from the sweetest blooms of spring, 
 And whilst they o'er me breathe their fragrant sighs. 
 
 Banish the last remains 
 Of my worn s])irits never ceasing pains. 
 Then come ! come speedily — oh tranquil Sleep ! 
 
 Ere, from the east, the sun 
 Shall rise, in youthful splendour, o'er the deep. 
 
 Then come, thou gentlest one ! — 
 Oh heal my heart's deep wounds, beloved Sleep ! 
 And in profound repose my senses steep.
 
 BUKLESQUE ODE. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO. 
 
 PODEROSO C.tBALLERO 
 ES DON DINERO .' 
 
 Money, money, charming money ! 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! 
 Glorious riches how I love you — 
 Nought on earth I prize above you ! 
 Am not I a ha])py fellow. 
 When thy face of lovely yellow. 
 Sweet Doubloon ! with smiles so bright. 
 Blesses my enraptured sight ? 
 Money, money, glorious money ! 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! 
 
 L
 
 146 BURLESQUE ODE. 
 
 In India's glowing climate born. 
 By all the world thy chains are worn ; 
 Haughty Genoa owns thy reign ; 
 Thou art Lord in kingly S])ain : 
 North, and south, and east, and west. 
 Is thy boundless power confest. 
 Money, money, potent money ! 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! 
 
 Wond'rous money ! thou canst make 
 Men esteem the wildest rake ; 
 Jew and Christian, Turk and Greek, 
 All alike thy favours seek ; 
 Brave and coward, King and clown, 
 All thy matchless virtues own. 
 Money, money, witching money ! 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! 
 
 Such is thy transforming power. 
 Give a maid a noble dower, 
 The plainest, clumsiest, kitchen-girl. 
 Is fair as Blanca, beauty's pearl;
 
 BUELESQUE ODE. 147 
 
 All around her charms can see — 
 All to wealth can bow the knee ! 
 Money, money, lovely money ! 
 Strong as ii'on, sweet as honey ! 
 
 Are we born of noble line ? 
 On our shield the gold may shine, 
 Yet our case is but the worse, 
 If it shine not in our purse — 
 Noble name, and empty coffers. 
 But provoke the mirth of scoffers. 
 Money, money, glorious money ! 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! 
 
 In the deep deliberations 
 
 That have changed the fate of nations, 
 
 Often thou hast won the field — 
 
 To thy reasoning all must yield. 
 
 Ev'n the judge the most severe, 
 
 Thy persuasive tones can hear. 
 
 Money, all-convincing money 1 
 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! 
 
 L 2
 
 148 BURLESQUE ODE. 
 
 Talk of lofty lineage — stuff ! 
 
 If a man take pains enough, 
 
 He whose giandsire held the plough 
 
 May move a haughty noble now — 
 
 Beggar vile, and proud grandee. 
 
 All are equals in degree — 
 
 By thy power, oh wond'rous money ! 
 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! s 
 
 Possessed of thee, we ne'er shall find 
 Fair one cold, or friend unkind ; 
 Thou canst lend bewitching graces. 
 To most clownish forms and faces — 
 Better is well filled purse of skin. 
 Than empty one of velvet sheen ! 
 Money, money, charming money ! 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey ! 
 
 Valued much in every land. 
 
 All thy language understand. 
 
 In peace, we are sustained by thee ; 
 
 In war, thou lead'st to victory ;
 
 BURLESQUE ODE. 149 
 
 Thou crown 'st the perils of the brave ; 
 And for the wretched — buy'st a grave ! 
 Money^ money, noble money ! 
 Strong as iron, sweet as honey.
 
 HYMN TO THE STARS. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO. 
 
 Beautiful Stars ! to you 
 Oil let my spirit wing her lofty flight, 
 
 Where, sparkling in yon canopy of blue, 
 Ye shine in glory o'er the chilly night ; 
 
 Or, like funereal torches, shed your ray. 
 
 Over the bier of the departed day. 
 
 Army of brightest gold ! 
 
 Solemnly marching over sapphire plains, 
 'Tis your's the blessed Angels to behold. 
 
 To hear the Seraphim's celestial strains. 
 And watch with bright, and ever wakeful eyes, 
 Over blind mortals' wayward destinies.
 
 HVMN TO THE STARS. 151 
 
 Signals whose dazzling light. 
 Speaks to the heart in voiceless eloquence, 
 
 Amid the stillness of the shadowy night, 
 Thrilling with holy rapture every sense ! 
 
 Letters of flame ! Lamps of mysterious gleaming ! 
 
 Making night lovely with your lucid beaming. 
 
 Precious, and radiant gems ! 
 
 Shining on night's dark melancholy brow. 
 Brighter than those in regal diadems. 
 
 Oft have ye heard the faithful lover's vow. 
 And cheered his homeward path, oh flowerets bright 
 Of heaven's own gardens ! founts of dewy light ! 
 
 Round Cynthia's pearly throne. 
 
 Like lovely nymphs around their queen, ye stand ; 
 All fortune's changes unto you are known — 
 
 The fates of nations are in your command — 
 Ye banish from the earth affrighted peace. 
 Or, with a word, bid wars and tumults cease.
 
 152 HYMN TO THE STARS. 
 
 Ye rule man's destinies. 
 
 Oh guardian fires ! and watch his changing lot. 
 From infancy's first hour, until he dies. 
 
 Ye see all things decay, yet alter not, 
 But in your bright appointed course ye roll. 
 Teaching deep wisdom to the wondering soul. 
 
 And when the sunnner's heat 
 
 Has parched with drought hill side, and fertile plain, 
 Ye glad the thirsty land with moisture sweet. 
 
 And, fresh'ning all around with gentle rain. 
 Prove to the world, that from benignant heaven, 
 Food to the hungry, and the poor is given. 
 
 Ye mark the flight of time, 
 As he steals on with swift, and silent wings ; 
 While Mars, and Saturn, from their height sublime, 
 Threaten vvith death, and danger, mightiest kings, 
 Strewing their slippery path with snares — to-day, 
 Sees them in power — to-morrow, in decay.
 
 HYMN TO THE STARS. 153 
 
 If in an earthly home 
 
 Ye lived, and loved, as told in ancient lore. 
 And now translated to yon azure dome. 
 
 Ye still remember those beloved of yore. 
 Guard, oh bright stars ! my own beloved maid. 
 Herself a star, in peerless charms arrayed ! 
 
 If, mid your radiant band. 
 
 One star has watched her from her infancy. 
 And guided her through life with gentle hand. 
 
 Star of my loved one, hear a lover's sigh ! 
 And influence so her heart, that I may be 
 As dear to her, as she has been to me. 
 
 Weary and desolate, 
 
 Whilst chill and heavy falls the dew of even. 
 Alone I wander, and would read my fate 
 
 In your mysterious rays, oh lights of heaven ! 
 And shunning the warm sunbeam's dazzling fire. 
 Beneath your softer influence tune my lyre.
 
 154 HYMN TO THE STARS. 
 
 The dusky birds of night, 
 
 Breaking the silence with their plaintive moans. 
 Around me flit in slow and heavy flight — 
 
 Yet more congenial are their mournful tones. 
 Than syrens' notes, in hours of grief and pain — 
 They are my muses — they inspire my strain.
 
 EPISTLE TO DON LUIS BE ZUNIGA. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OP HUETADO DE MENDOZA. 
 *■ 
 
 Don Luis, there are many on this earth. 
 
 Who setting prudence utterly at naught. 
 Pass their whole days in revelry and mirth ; 
 
 Who pufF themselves up with presumptuous thought. 
 And building baseless castles in the wind. 
 Deem that all wisdom is too dearly bought ; 
 
 And in their own absurd conceits enshrined. 
 
 Believe that bounteous fortune round their heads, 
 With lavish hand, her golden wreath has twined. 
 
 Thoughtless as simple children hi their beds. 
 
 Who for whole hours unconscious of all care. 
 Count one, by one, the beams above their heads —
 
 156 EPISTLE TO DON LUIS DE ZUNIGA. 
 
 So pass away their lives, as free as air. 
 
 But when their wild career at length is o'er. 
 Nothing remains of all their prospects fair, 
 
 But, like the sands upon the ocean shore, 
 A sudden wind arises, they are gone — 
 And seen in their accustomed place no more. 
 
 Thus fares it with the men who live alone 
 
 For this vain world, who eat, and drink, and sleep. 
 As if a nohler aim they ne'er had known. 
 
 Others there are who sedulously keep 
 
 The opjDosite extreme, and think that they 
 The fruit of their unceasing toil shall reap, — 
 
 Deeming each minute idly thrown away. 
 
 That is not spent in adding gain to gain. 
 And heaping treasures up that must decay. 
 
 Troubling themselves with sjseculations vain. 
 And seeking danger when it is not near, — 
 Weighing their spirits down with needless pain, — 
 
 Regarding all the world with brow severe, — 
 
 Seeking man's inmost heart to scrutinize, — 
 And deeming all around them insincere : —
 
 EPISTLE TO DON LUIS DE ZUNIGA. 157 
 
 Officious, bustling, diligence they prize. 
 
 Holding plain sober sense in much contempt, 
 And all who follow not their steps despise. 
 
 And as from every law, or faith exempt. 
 
 Save such as chance to suit their purpose best, 
 Still hurry on as if their fate to tempt. 
 
 Quick in their walk, with eye of stem unrest. 
 Eager, and shrewd in gesture as in mind. 
 With trailing cloak, and worn and tarnished vest. 
 
 Should sudden ills befal them, then they find 
 Upon how slight a base the hopes were laid. 
 For which far nobler j©ys had been resigned. 
 
 Neither of these, tho' numerous, have made 
 A prudent choice in their career of l\fe : 
 And both, alike will find their hopes betrayed. 
 And end in disappointment, care, and strife.
 
 EPISTLE TO BOSCAN. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF HUKTADO DE MENDOZA. 
 
 4 
 
 BoscAN, I see thee in thy happiness ! 
 
 I see thy lovely wife beside thee stand. 
 With her dark ringlets and her snowy dress. 
 
 Now gathering for thee with her gentle hand. 
 
 The luscious grapes and many a fragrant flower. 
 The choicest gifts of this our sunny land. 
 
 I see how diligently, hour by hour. 
 
 She comes to her new duties ; with what pride 
 She sits at work in that sequestered bovver. 
 
 Her fair young cheek with softest crimson dyed. 
 
 Blends with the spotless whiteness of her brow — 
 Never did earth behold a lovelier bride !
 
 EPISTLE TO BOSCAN. ]59 
 
 The dark green myrtles round thy lattice throw 
 
 Their scented blossoms, and a thousand flowers 
 Mingle their beauties in one radiant glow. 
 
 There, happy in the shade of those loved bowers. 
 
 Love, with his glittering pinions steeped in wine, 
 Upon thee all his choicest blessings showers ! 
 
 Then envy not the lot of those who shine 
 
 A few short years, the mighty of the earth. 
 Then sleep, forgotten, with their haughty line ; 
 
 Or those who by deceit win all their worth. 
 
 And on their ill-got treasure sleep by stealth ; — 
 Whose riches perish, as they had their birth. 
 
 But, Boscan, I desire no other wealth — 
 I neither laugh at riches, nor adore, — 
 Than with a modest competence, and health. 
 
 That Heaven would deign to bless my liumble store ! 
 I ask a heart to every change resigned ! — 
 Riches and honours can secure no more. 
 To a well ordered and contented mind.
 
 MADEIGAL. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO. 
 
 The swift winged Bird her dwelling has in Air ; 
 
 To Fire the Salamander owes its birth ; 
 
 The Fish lives in the Waters bright, and clear ; 
 
 And Man, the lord of all, bears sway on Earth. 
 
 I only, in my spirit's discontent. 
 
 My portion have in every element — 
 
 The Air, I breathe in sad and bitter sighs ; 
 
 The Earth, I roam in weary pilgrimage ; 
 
 By day and night griefs Tide o'erflows my eyes : 
 
 And love's fierce Flames within my bosom rage.
 
 ANACEEONTIC. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF GUTIERRE DE CETINA. 
 
 Sweet Dora ! from the golden curls 
 That o'er thy snowy shoulders flow. 
 
 Young Love, one bright and glossy tress 
 Has stolen to string his fatal bow. 
 
 " No longer thou shalt mock my power 
 Nor laugh at my all-conquering dart!" 
 
 He cried, as with uneiiing eye. 
 He aimed his aiTow at my heart. 
 
 And thus I answered, " foolish boy, 
 " AiTows and bow are useless noiv — 
 
 " For with those lovely tresses armed, 
 " Before thy power all must bow !" 
 
 M
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. 
 
   > 
 
 There is a lovely and gi-aceful sj^rite 
 
 That haunts my footsteps where'er I stray, 
 
 Her image floats through my dreams by night, 
 She is by my side the livelong day. 
 
 When I roam the woods in the sultry noon. 
 Or listless recline by the glancing rill, 
 
 When I wander beneath the cold bright moon, 
 Her eyes are beaming upon me still. 
 
 As I pensive sit by my fire at night. 
 
 When the wintry wind through the casement moans. 
 She is there, with her smiles so gently bright, 
 
 Cheering my heart with her silvery tones.
 
 FKOM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. 1C3 
 
 She teaches my soul the trutli sublime, 
 
 As we gaze upon the starry skies — 
 They have brightly shone since the birth of time. 
 
 As they now appear to our wondering eyes. 
 
 She is the spirit at whose command, 
 
 I have climbed Parnassus' dizzv heiaht ; 
 
 And her's is the firm, yet gentle hand. 
 
 That guides me on in the path of right. 
 
 She tells me where by the moon's brigbt beam, 
 The fairies rejoice in their midnight glee ; 
 
 She shows me a naiad in every stream, 
 A spirit of beauty in every tree. 
 
 When I muse on the records of ancient story — 
 The inspiring tale of our fathers' fame — 
 
 She bids me remember their deathless glory, 
 
 Nor stain, by my follies, their .spotless name. 
 
 M 2
 
 THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN ATTACKED BY 
 A MORTAL MALADY. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR LEBAS. 
 
 Oh, beautiful and gentle spring ! in vain 
 Dost thou return to deck the earth with flowers. 
 Bringing bright days and sunshine in thy train — 
 In vain for me — for my remaining hours 
 Are numbered, and my star of destiny 
 Is sinking into darkness ! I have read 
 The warrant of my death, and I shall be. 
 Ere long, at rest amid the silent dead. — 
 My fatal knowledge pierces through the cloud 
 That veils the future in its sable shroud — 
 I know that I must die — oh, why was given 
 To me that wisdom most beloved of heaven^
 
 THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 165 
 
 To heal the ills of others, when, for me. 
 
 My art affords not one sole remedy ? 
 
 Happier is he, who, though a prey to pain — 
 
 Though burning fever wastes away his bloom — 
 
 Can doubt his fate ; whom hope can still sustain 
 
 With her deceitful smiles, till in the tomb 
 
 He sinks at last : — but my impending doom 
 
 Admits not of a doubt — by day and night, 
 
 That phantom dread is present to my sight. 
 
 Wrapping my few remaining hours in gloom. 
 
 The balmy airs of spring bring no relief — 
 
 My friends — my books — that once could soothe my grief. 
 
 Have lost their influence now — I seek in vain, 
 
 A refuge from my weariness and pain — 
 
 And yet, at times, amid the cares that press 
 
 Upon my heart, I dream of love and joy, 
 
 And in that transient gleam of happiness. 
 
 Forget the doom that must my bliss destroy ! 
 
 Then, my dear Mother — and my gentle Bride — 
 
 I think of you, till down my pale cheeks glide 
 
 The bitter tears — to think that I must part 
 
 So soon, from those the dearest of my heart !
 
 166 THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Alas ! to me the future seemed so bright — 
 So thickly strown with flowers — yet I ne'er pined 
 For riches, or for power ; my sole delight 
 Was in domestic love, and those relined. 
 And simple pleasures of a studious life. — 
 Oh, how I would have loved my gentle wife ! 
 My children too — my children! hapless one! — 
 I dreamt a long life — and my course is done !
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A DISPLAY OF FIKEWOKKS. 
 
 Dazzling, yet transient lights ! I see in you 
 Of man's career a picture strangely true. 
 In every radiant spark that mounts the skies. 
 My mind some human character descries ; 
 Some of more brilliant, some of humbler light. 
 Yet ending all alike in shadowy night. 
 
 There, as to scale high heaven, a rocket flies — 
 Loud shouts attend it, and admiring eyes 
 Watch it's resplendent progi'ess through the skies- 
 Such is the Hero, who on fields of strife. 
 To win a nation's plaudits, risks his life.
 
 168 FIREWORKS. 
 
 Behold where swiftly whirls that splendid wheel. 
 Whose gorgeous fires the clumsy frame conceal — 
 That is the Statesman, in his fame's bright blaze. 
 How grand, how noble ! and whilst vulgar praise 
 Exalts him up to heaven, how few descry 
 The complicate, yet coarse machinery — 
 The mean, and servile tools — the hidden springs — 
 Which to the sight jiroduce such wond'rous things. 
 Then mark that swift-ascending star, that throws 
 On all around it's tints of loveliest rose — 
 There is the Poet, who with fancy bright. 
 Adorns all earth with more than earthly light ! 
 'Tis vanished — and a Blue-light's dismal gleam 
 Succeeds, beneath whose dim sepulchral beam. 
 Each face that lately wore the smiles of gladness. 
 Now darkens into stern, and gloomy sadness. 
 Next shine the Roman Candles, softly clear — 
 Those are the hearts to home, and friends most dear- 
 Yet in their beautiful, and gentle light. 
 Most evanescent, as most jjurely bright. 
 There dart a dozen Squibs — an emblem meet 
 Of little minds, who, in their own conceit.
 
 FIREWORKS. 169 
 
 Are blessed with wondrous wit, and sense profound. 
 And look with much contempt on all around. 
 Then comes a Cracker — bouncing — blustering — 
 
 vai)ouring, 
 Annoying all around with senseless capering — 
 In that I read, the noisy Politician, 
 To all who'll hear him, jabbering vile sedition — 
 Yet let him fret and talk himself to death. 
 The sole effect of that vast waste of breath 
 Is — to scare children out of all their wits — 
 Or frighten nervous ladies into fits. 
 
 Thus Poet, Statesman, Warrior, and Sage, 
 All " fret their little hour upon the stage ;" 
 Each o'er the minds of men asserts his sway. 
 And proudly shines the idol of to-day — 
 To-morrow in oblivion passed away — 
 And like those fires, whose bright ascending blaze 
 One moment flashes, and the next decays — 
 A broken stick, or scorched and noisome shell. 
 Alone remaining their career to tell —
 
 170 FIREWOBKS. 
 
 So, when the earthly race of man is o'er, 
 Forgotten soon by those who praised before, 
 Another follows in his path of pride. 
 And then, like him is lost in time's dark tide ! 
 Their toils, their ])rojects, for themselves in vain, 
 Enrich or ruin those who yet remain — 
 The wise, the noble, and the great, no less 
 Than the mean rabble, lost in nothingness !
 
 THE DIVORCEE TO HER DAUGHTER. 
 
 My lovely one ! my gentle one ! my pure and spotless flower ! 
 Oft has the thought of thee beguiled the long and weary hour; 
 Till, wrapped in blest oblivion of misery and pain. 
 The days of youth and happiness, seem to return again. 
 
 How many dreary years of gi'ief, and weariness have passed. 
 Over this pale and sunken cheek, since I beheld thee last ! 
 Yet I can see thee still my child, as in those happy days. 
 When thy blue eyes to mine were turned in childhood's 
 fondest gaze. 
 
 Still I can see thy graceful form, thy fair and open brow. 
 The glossy chestnut curls that fell upon thy neck of snow — 
 Still I can hear thy joyous tones, thy laugh of childish glee, 
 -\nd the light, bounding, eager step, that flew to welcome me.
 
 172 THE DIVORCEE TO HER DAUGHTER. 
 
 They tell me thou art heautiful, so nobly, proudly bright ; 
 With eyes of deepest, loveliest blue, and locks of golden light ! 
 They praise thy dignity of mien, thy soft and gentle smile. 
 And thy sweet voice whose seraph tones can deepest woes beguile. 
 
 How dangerous are those gifts, my child ! — too oft a fatal dower. 
 To those who yield too readily, to flattery's witching power ! — 
 But thou may'st pass that ordeal dread, from all pollution free — 
 The world's deceits can never stain thy spirit's purity. 
 
 Oh, had my heart been pure as thine, in youthful beauty's pride — 
 In those bright days when I became thy noble father's bride — 
 Had I been worthy of his love — even of his ancient name — 
 I had not been, as now I am, a thing of guilt and shame ! 
 
 Yet those who blame my fault the most, alas ! can never know 
 The deep repentance I have felt — the agony of woe — 
 The vain regrets for former peace — the sad and bitter tears — 
 And all the anguish and remorse of those long, lonely years. 
 
 And there is still a deeper grief, that wrings my aching heart — 
 That thou must suffer for my guilt, all sinless as thou art ! —
 
 THE DIVORCEE TO HER DAUGHTER. 173 
 
 That, when suvrounded by the friends to thy young heart most 
 
 dear. 
 The bhish of shame must tinge thy cheek, thy mother's name 
 
 to hear ! 
 
 And then how fervently I pray, thy futuj-e life may he 
 As calm as thy unsullied brow, from sin or sorrow free ! — 
 Yet if some trials be thy lot, oh ! may they be but given. 
 To win thy heart from this vain world, and lead thee on to 
 Heaven ! 
 
 And as. I pray for thee, my child ! my throbbing heart grows 
 
 calm ; 
 And o'er my soul Religion sheds her gentle, holy balm : 
 For in fond prayers to Heaven for thee, beloved one ! must flow. 
 The only happiness and peace, that I, on earth, can know.
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 When the cares and the pleasures 
 
 Of the husy day ai'e o'er, 
 And all its joys and sorrows 
 
 Pei-plex the heart no more ; 
 When the twilight grey is closing 
 
 Slowly o'er hill and dale ; 
 And the lovely star of evening 
 
 Sheddeth her lustre pale ; 
 
 When deep and dreamy silence 
 
 Is reigning all around, 
 And but the blackbird's whistle 
 
 Breaks the repose profound —
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 175 
 
 Then bright and varied visions 
 
 Come floating o'er mj mind, 
 Swift as o'er summer meadows 
 
 Passes the western wind. 
 
 1 think of days departed — 
 
 The spring time of my years ! 
 It's gay, light-hearted laughter. 
 
 It's wild, and bitter tears ; 
 Yet amid the gloom of sorrow. 
 
 There were gleams of brightest joy. 
 The memory of whose gladness, 
 
 Even time can ne'er destroy. 
 
 1 think u])on the present — 
 
 Hour of my spirit's might ! 
 And every thing around mc 
 
 Is beautiful and bright ; 
 Beloved friends are near me, 
 
 Kind tones reply to inine, 
 And if some griefs assail me, 
 
 Wherefore should 1 rrpino ■'
 
 176 . TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 I think iijjon tlie future- 
 How bright the scene appears ! 
 
 Kind smiles, and warm affections 
 For life's remaining years : 
 
 Though the world withholds its riches, 
 And its gay heartless mirth. 
 
 All nature's holiest feelings 
 Shall bless our happy hearth ! 
 
 And though tiiese smiling prospects. 
 
 Perchance may pass away — 
 And coming years, too surely. 
 
 Bring age and pale decay — 
 Yet let us still be grateful. 
 
 To us the hope is given. 
 When our earthly course is finished. 
 
 Of endless bliss in heaven. 
 
 Am I not then most happy — 
 
 Have I not cause to be, 
 For all these blessings thankful. 
 
 Oh gracious God, to Thee ? —
 
 TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 177 
 
 Then be Thy Name still blessed 
 Oh Lord, befal what may — 
 
 Blessed be Thou, when Thou givest ! 
 Blessed, when Thou takest away !
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 WHO HAD SENT THE AUTHOR SOME VIOLETS. 
 
   
 
 Accept a jJoet's thanks sincere. 
 
 Dear Hannali, for your lovely flowers. 
 Ever to minstrel's heart most dear, 
 
 Of all that bloom in Flora's bowers ; 
 And ever shall they valued be. 
 As fitting gift from thee to me. 
 
 For in these lovely flowers 1 And, 
 
 An emblem meet, dear girl, of thee — 
 
 The white, may picture well thy mind. 
 In all its native purity ; 
 
 Whilst the deep petals of the blue, 
 
 Are feelings warm, affections true.
 
 TO A LADY. 179 
 
 And as, when their bright hues decay, 
 
 Their bahiiy odours still remain. 
 So thou, when youth shall pass away, 
 
 Shalt all thy brighter charms retain — 
 Though time may change thy youthful face, 
 He cannot mar thy spirit's grace ! 
 
 And, like them, thou wert made to bless 
 Those who can dearly prize thy worth, 
 
 And with thv modest loveliness. 
 
 To brighten one sweet spot of earth ; 
 
 Like them, the vulgar gaze to shun, 
 
 And, like them, " not unsought be won. ' 
 
 N 2
 
 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 TO ALIANORE,* QUEEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 4^ 
 
 Alianore ! sweet Alianore ! 
 
 I think of thee in the days of yore. 
 
 When thy cheek with youth's soft bloom was bright. 
 
 And thy dark eyes gleamed with joyous light; 
 
 When 'neath thy finger's magic touch. 
 
 Trembled the harj) we loved so much. 
 
 And high-born chieftains stood around. 
 
 Entranced at each serajjhic sound. — 
 
 The harp is broken — the strain is o'er — 
 
 Thou art lost, thou art lost to us, Alianore ! 
 
 Alianore ! long years have past. 
 
 Since thy native land beheld thee last ; 
 
   Eleanore of Guienne, Queen of Henry II.
 
 THE TROUBADOUK. 181 
 
 They say thy cheek is pale with care. 
 And tinged with snow is thy raven hair ; 
 They say thou art stern and haughty grown. 
 That thy voice has lost its silvery tone ; 
 And far from thine own bright sunny sky, 
 Thou pinest in sad captivity. — 
 Return — return to thy own loved shore ! 
 To life — to freedom — Alianore ! 
 
 Alianore, in thy distant Isle, 
 Where the glad'ning sunbeams rarely smile, 
 Thou hast borne for years the bitter hate. 
 Of a tyrant Monarch, and faithless mate. 
 Surrounded too by a stranger race. 
 Blind to thy beauty and peerless grace. 
 No pitying friend — no loved one near — 
 To share thy dangers, thy griefs to cheer ! 
 Would we might welcome thee home once more- 
 Return — return to us, Alianore ! 
 
 Bright was thy realm, and happ}- tliy rcigu. 
 When thou wert Countess of Afpiitainc —
 
 182 THE TKOUBADOUR. 
 
 But gloomy and sad thy life has been. 
 
 Since thou becamest proud England's Queen ! 
 
 Bring thy bold sons, thy daughters fair. 
 
 Our best affections with thee to share. 
 
 So the last days of thy life shall be. 
 
 Like thy joyous childhood, hlythe and free. — 
 
 Retuni — return to thy native shore — 
 
 To the hearts that love thee, Alianore 1
 
 SONG OF THE GENII. 
 
 AiK. — " Gia fau ritonio. " 
 
 HastEj oh my Sisters, away ! away ! 
 Why should we longer our flight delay ? 
 
 Lovely is earth when the iBorning hreeze 
 Softly sighs through the deep green trees ; 
 Lovely is earth when the sunset's light 
 Bathes hill and vale in lustre bright ; 
 But our's the land where the thunder cloud 
 Ne'er can the glorious radiance shroud. 
 Then come ! come ! back to our home — 
 Our own loved home ! 
 
 Mirrored in streamlets deep and clear, 
 Loveliest flowers are blooming here. 
 On the soft air their fragrance flinging ; 
 Beautiful birds are lound us singing ;
 
 184 SONG OF THE GENII. 
 
 But brighter our mansions in the sky — 
 There the sweet flowers ne'er fade or die. 
 Then come ! come ! back to our home — 
 Our own bright home ! 
 
 Bright are the scenes, and the faces fair, 
 Smiling on earth — yet death is there ! 
 There are sad tears and broken hearts, 
 When from the loving, the loved departs ; 
 But in our land is no grief or pain — 
 Where the long parted ones meet again. 
 Then come ! come ! back to our home — 
 Our gloi'ious home ! 
 
 Who would remain amid scenes whose joy. 
 Sin or grief can so soon destroy ? 
 Who would not change a world like this. 
 For our own home's unfading bliss ? 
 Then haste, sweet Sisters I away — away ! 
 W hy should we longer our flight delay ? 
 Then come ! come ! back to our home — 
 Our radiant home !
 
 THE MINSTREL'S FAREWELL. 
 
 WRITTEN TO WEBERS LAST WALTZ. 
 
 Farewell, land of hill and fountain, 
 Wild ravine, and flowery dell ! 
 
 Land of spirit-haunted mountain. 
 Take your Minstrel's last farewell ! 
 
 For that sun which now is glowing 
 
 Brightly over earth and sea, 
 On my couch it's radiance throwing, 
 
 Will not rise again for me ! 
 
 But a holier light is breaking 
 On my s])irit I'loui on high — 
 
 And my soul her liight is taking. 
 To her home bevond the skv !
 
 186 THE MINSTKEL'S FAREWELL. 
 
 Then, farewell, sweet sunny fountains, 
 Of the land I love so well ! 
 
 My beloved native mountains. 
 
 Take vour Minstrel's — 'last farewell !
 
 LINES FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Butterfly, wild and free, 
 
 Roaming through fields of air. 
 
 Oh, how I envy thee, 
 
 Creatui-e so blythe and fair ! 
 
 All the glad summer long. 
 
 Thy rainbow hues we see, 
 
 Fluttering the flowers among. 
 Bright in thy sportive glee ! 
 
 'Neath the sun's golden light, 
 
 Thv gorgeous wings are spread. 
 
 But in the chilly night, 
 
 Folded above thy head.
 
 188 LINES FOR MUSIC. 
 
 When the warm days are flown. 
 
 Comes winter's stormy sky ; — 
 
 When the sweet flowers art gone, 
 Beauteous one thou must die. 
 
 Whilst the bright sunbeams last, 
 I too would joyous be ; — 
 
 When life's best days are past, 
 I too would die with thee.
 
 THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 
 
 Land of my fathers ! my own Giiienne ! 
 I am hastening back to thy shores again ! 
 I have wandered in many a distant land. 
 And fought the Moslems with sj^ear and brand ; 
 I have crossed the deserts of Palestine, 
 And knelt at the Sepulchre's Holy Shrine ; 
 And now I am hastening home again. 
 To die in peace in my own Guienne. 
 
 Again I shall see the blue Garonne, 
 
 In changeless majesty rushing on ; 
 
 I shall rove again in the woody glade. 
 
 Where my careless footsteps in youth have strayed ;
 
 190 THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 
 
 Again shall my own dear maiden's voice, 
 With its gentle accents my heart rejoice ; 
 And joyous will be my welcome then, 
 To thy peaceful vallies, my own Guienne ! 
 
 In all my wanderings by land and sea. 
 Land of my birth ! I have thought of thee- 
 Among armed knights on the battle plain, 
 Among fairest dames in the courtly train. 
 Amid scenes of death, or in social glee. 
 My thoughts have ever flown back to thee ; 
 For in loveliest maidens, or dauntless men. 
 What land can rival my own Guienne ?
 
 THE STAK. 
 
 The night was overcast and dark. 
 And clouds across the face of heaven, 
 
 Were flying swiftly as the bark. 
 O'er the tempestuous waters driven. 
 
 Yet in that wild and stormy sky. 
 One little star was shining bright ; 
 
 And o'er each cloud that flitted by. 
 It threw it's soft, and radiant light. 
 
 And when, perchance, some passing cloud, 
 Hid it a moment from mine eye. 
 
 Emerging from it's dusky shroud, 
 It seemed to shine more brilliantly.
 
 192 THE STAR. 
 
 And then I thonght, that to my soul, 
 
 Hope had been like that gentle star- 
 Ever, 'mid sorrow's dark controiil. 
 Shedding it's influence from afar.
 
 ANCIENT IRISH KEEN VERSIFIED. 
 
 Heard ye that lonely, distant, wail ? — 
 Was it the Banshee's mournful cry, 
 
 Borne sadly, on the passing gale. 
 
 To tell us that our chief must die ? 
 
 Or did the low, sad voice that spoke, 
 Come as a warning from the tomb. 
 
 That our majestic, mountain oak. 
 
 Must wither in his youthful bloom ? 
 
 He perished in the pride of life — 
 
 As the fair hawthorn's flowers of snow, 
 
 Are scattered, by the wild wind's strife. 
 Upon the cold, damp earth below.
 
 194 ANCIENT IRISH KEEN VERSIFIED. 
 
 Plant ye the wild fir on his grave ! 
 
 The stranger then who passes near, 
 Will know that the departed brave. 
 
 Reposes in his glory here.
 
 DOCTOROMACHIA. 
 
 " When Greek meets Greek, then conies the tug of war," 
 But Doctor meeting Doctor, deadlier far 
 Than clanging armour, or than clashing swords. 
 Ascends to heaven the dreadful din of — words. 
 L*****n says W*******d uses vile coercion ; 
 W»******d repudiates the base assertion ; 
 Proclaims the whole a false and groundless fiction, 
 And — begs to authorize its contradiction. 
 At which retort, up jumps our L*****n sage, 
 Fire in his eyes — his visage pale with rage — 
 " A fiction !" cries he, " I'll to W*******d hie — 
 This Doctor must apologize or die !" 
 Sternly he orders that a chaise and four. 
 
 At noon precisely, shall be at the door — 
 
 o2
 
 196 DOCTORUMiiCHIA, 
 
 It comes — bold Esculapius mounts the car, 
 And, Mars beside him, hastens to the war. — 
 
 Chivah'ous Doctor ! back to L*****n speed. 
 And use the lancet, if you needs must bleed — 
 If in your breast still reigns the wish to kill, 
 Oh, trust not to the pistol — but the pill ; — 
 Back to your patients, lest the world should say. 
 Their impatient Doctor is as mad as they : 
 And, would'st thou live thy proper term of years, 
 Leave challenges — to 'prentices and peers. — 
 To grave prescriptions still confine your pen. 
 And flourish in the land of fog and fen.
 
 SONNETS
 
 199 
 
 TO THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. 
 
 ON SEEING HER IN YORK MINSTEK DURING THE PERFORMANCE OF 
 THE MESSIAH, SEPTEMBERS, 1835.* 
 
 Sweet Princess ! as I gaze upon thee now, 
 In the bright freshness of thy youthful race, 
 And, in thy soft blue eyes, and tranquil brow, 
 Would seek resemblance to thy lofty race, 
 I think how soon the 'whelming cares of state, 
 May crush thy free, young spirit with their weight. 
 And change the guileless beauty of thy face — 
 Nor leave, of that sweet happy smile one trace. 
 Then earnestly I pray that thou may'st be, 
 Through all thy life, beloved, good, and great ; 
 And when, from thy calm home, by Heaven's decree. 
 Thou art called to rule a mighty Nation's fate, 
 May'st thou, throughout thy reign, be just and wise. 
 And win at last — a crown, immortal in the skies. 
 
 * Published in Blackwood's Magazine, for October, 1835.
 
 200 
 
 TO THE WHARFE. 
 
 Oh moorland river, beautiful and wild ! 
 
 I love to see thy bright waves onward roll. 
 
 Impetuous, and impatient of controul. 
 
 As some untamed and fearless mountain child. 
 
 Thou rushest swiftly past the haunts of men. 
 
 As uncongenial to thee ; for thy choice 
 
 Is the lone meadow, or the rocky glen. 
 
 Or ancient wood, where ringdove's 2)laintive voice 
 
 Alone is heard. Mirrored in thy clear flood 
 
 Are mouldering Towers, relics of those, whose name 
 
 And ruthless deeds, in characters of blood. 
 
 Are written in the immortal page of fame — 
 
 But they, with all their pride and power, are gone ! 
 
 Whilst thou, unchanged, still blythely boundest on.
 
 •201 
 
 TO THE CALDER. 
 
 Such wild romantic beauty is not thine. 
 
 Oh gentle Calder, river of the vales ! 
 
 Yet art thou lovely, when thy waters shine 
 
 In the bright sunset ; when the snowy sails 
 
 Of richly freighted vessels, swanlike, glide 
 
 Down thy calm stream. To many a busy scene 
 
 Of never ceasing traffic, thy rich tide 
 
 Has long the source of wealth and plenty been. 
 
 But, as the studies that enrich the mind. 
 
 Leave on the brow of man their withering trace, 
 
 So, to increase thy usefulness designed. 
 
 Art has despoiled thee of thy native grace — 
 
 Where thy free waves once flowed through woodlands green. 
 
 The forge's glare, the factory's smoke, are seen.
 
 202 
 
 ON VIEWING A PORTKAIT OF THOMAS WENTWORTH, 
 EARL OF STRAFFORD. 
 
 Illustrious victim of a ruthless age ! 
 
 In thy proud mien, and features cahnly stem, 
 
 And eyes that seem 'neath their dark brows to burn, 
 
 I read thy noble spirit — bold, yet sage ! 
 
 Which, in its lofty freedom, ne'er could leani 
 
 To bow beneath the storm of party rage. 
 
 But braved it unsubdued : and then I turn 
 
 Sadly to muse on history's darkest page. — 
 
 Thy blood was shed by those, whose frantic hate 
 
 Was poured on thee, because, with fearless pride. 
 
 Thou would'st have crushed the gi'owing ills of state. 
 
 And stemmed rebellion's fast increasing tide ! 
 
 And such, when faction sways, will be the fate. 
 
 Of all our land can boast — her noble, good, and great.
 
 203 
 
 TO THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Another year is numbered with the past. 
 With all it's storms and sunshine, smiles and tears. 
 The dim veil of the future round it cast, 
 Another following in its path, appears — 
 We hail it with a joyous welcoming. 
 With feasting, and with revelry, unknowing 
 The griefs, the disappointments, it may bring 
 To many a heart with fervent hopes now glowing. 
 Now, as it were upon the verge extreme, 
 Between the future and the past, we stand — 
 The past, appears but as a shadowy dream — 
 Almost forgotten ; whilst with aspect bland. 
 The future seems to smile — delusion vain ! 
 It will but be the past — reacted o'er again.
 
 204 
 
 PETRARCH, CHAUCER, FROISSART, AND THEIR 
 MEETING AT MILAN. 
 
 I. 
 PETRARCH. 
 
 A LOFTY beacon, whose benignant light 
 
 Is shed o'er rocks where ceaseless breakers roar; 
 
 A pure and radiant star, whose lustre bright 
 
 Gleams in a sky with storm-clouds scattered o'er ; 
 
 An eagle, who to meet the dawn can soar, 
 
 When to the earth beneath 'tis hid from sight ; 
 
 Such wert thou Petrarch, holiest bard of yore ! 
 
 Amidst Italia's wild and stormy night. 
 
 Great poet — yet thy verse thy smallest merit ; 
 
 Lover most passionate — yet most refined; 
 
 Philosopher — and yet of humble mind ; 
 
 Firm in the cause of right — yet meek in spirit : 
 
 Through all thy works, through all thy actions, shine 
 
 The Heaven-born virtues of thy soul divine !
 
 205 
 
 II. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 Poet, whose varied song has oft beguiled 
 The student's solitude, the courtier's leisure ; 
 Thou, from whose " well of English undefiled," 
 So many bards have drawn an ample measure ; 
 Whether the tale be of adventures wild. 
 Of love's tormenting doubts, or fleeting pleasure. 
 Of patient wife, or holy martyred child. 
 How rich art thou in fancy's choicest treasure ! 
 Kings were thy patrons ; high born beauties hung 
 Enraptured on those strains, which some now blame 
 As harsh and unrefined — yet hast thou sung 
 Wisely, and well ; and wert the first to claim, 
 A place among the nations for a tongue. 
 Till then unlearned, and unknown to fame :
 
 206 
 
 III. 
 
 FKOISSART. 
 
 Oh courtly Frenchman, how 1 love to trace. 
 
 In life-like portraiture, through each bright page. 
 
 The characters of thy romantic age ! 
 
 Philippa — first in every queenly gi'ace, 
 
 Whose smile could calm proud Edward's fiercest ire ; 
 
 The Black Prince — bravest of his dauntless race ; 
 
 Chandos — and Manny — and, though last in place. 
 
 Not least in fame, Du Guesclin — soul of fire ; 
 
 He too, De Foix's proud chief — whose martial glory, 
 
 Learning and sjilendour, thou so well hast told ; 
 
 And as I read each spirit-stirring story. 
 
 Of mighty Kings, fair Dames, and Chieftains bold, 
 
 I think, how happy thou their friend to be — 
 
 How happy they, in Chronicler like thee !
 
 207 
 
 IV. 
 
 THEY MET. 
 
 Through Milan's holy Dome, the varied ray 
 Shines on a glittering scene of pomp and power. 
 For Lionel of England weds to-day 
 Fair Violante, Milan's loveliest flower : 
 And there, with noble dame and gallant knight, 
 Together met to grace this solemn hour. 
 Are three of lofty mien, and aspect bright, 
 Aye welcome guests in lordly hall or bower. 
 Proud chieftains stand around, whose princely sway 
 And high renown, were purchased by their swords — 
 Yet when their fame has passed from earth away, 
 Your names, bright friends, shall be as household words- 
 Your memory, in each heart enshrined shall be — 
 Petrarch, Froissart, and Chaucer, glorious three !
 
 208 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF HURTADO 
 DE MENDOZA. 
 
 Whether in study's sweet pursuits I find 
 
 Repose from care ; or grasp a warrior's brand ; 
 Or, mingled with the mass of human kind. 
 
 Amid the city's busy haunts I stand : 
 Even when my body is to sleep resigned, 
 
 I see thee still as in our own dear land — 
 Thy image is engraven on my mind 
 
 In all its beauty — still thy snowy hand, 
 In fancy rests in mine ! — Thus the bright Sun, 
 Bursting thro' clouds that fain would veil his blaze, 
 
 O'er ocean, earth, and sky his radiance throws. 
 Triumphantly his daily course to run ; 
 While nature hails with joy his glorious rays. 
 
 And every clime, beneath his influence, glows.
 
 209 
 
 ROME BURIED IN HER RUINS. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEBO. 
 
 Oh Pilgrim ! seekest thou for Rome in Rome ? 
 
 In Rome herself, Rome thou shalt never find. 
 
 She is a lovely corse whose lofty mind 
 
 Is fled for ever ; and her once proud home. 
 
 On Avenlino's height, is now her tomh ! 
 
 The Palatine with many a wreck is strown. 
 
 Of her once gorgeous splendour, overthrown 
 
 And laid in dust by time's relentless doom. 
 
 Tiber alone remains, as in her day 
 
 Of power and grandeur, and with ceaseless moan. 
 
 Laments the imperial city's sad decay ! 
 
 Oh Rome ! thy beauty and thy strength are gone ! 
 
 Thy fame, thy virtues, like a dream arc past ! 
 
 Thy vain, and fleeting, still remain and last.
 
 210 
 
 LISIDA. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO- 
 
 Oh Mariner ! who on the Ocean's breast, 
 Pursu'st thy way with resolution hold. 
 From the rich mines of the far distant west. 
 To bring the glancing gem, the ruddy gold, 
 Pause on thy way, for thou may'st here behold 
 Far greater wealth by Lisida possessed : 
 Richer each glossy ringlet's graceful fold, 
 Thau all the gold that e'er brought man unrest 1 
 Behold her smile, if thou for pearls dost seek ? 
 Purer beneath the Ocean do not lie ! 
 Her rosy lips ! if Tyra's purple dye ? 
 If rarest flowers ? her soft and blooming cheek. 
 Radiant as spring or morning's gentle light ! 
 If costly gems ? her eyes are diamonds bright !
 
 :>11 
 
 TO LISIDA. 
 
 WITH THE FIRST SPRING FLOWER. 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO. 
 
 I BRiXG thee, Lisida, the earliest flower 
 
 That yet has dared to trust the sun's faint heat, 
 And with its soft green leaves and perfume sweet. 
 
 Has boldly sprung to cheer our wintry bower. 
 
 And from these blossoms that in spring's first houi'. 
 With their fresli fragrance thus our senses greet. 
 May we not hope in Summer's prime to meet. 
 
 Gems worthier still the Sun's increasing power ? 
 A bright yet brief career their destiny — 
 
 Their ages are but hours — a single day 
 
 Smiles on their birth, and mourns to see them die ! 
 
 Then dearest, wouldst thou save them from decay. 
 Amid thy golden tresses let them lie, 
 
 And win from thence a bloom, that will not fade away. 
 
 p 2
 
 NOTES
 
 i
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 4. 
 
 But hark .' what mean those silvery notes 
 That are bursting on his car? 
 
 " Don Diego Lopez, the Lord of Biscay, was lying in wait 
 for the wild boar, when he heai-d the voice of a woman singing. 
 The damsel was standing on the summit of a rock : exceed- 
 ingly beautiful, and richly attired. Don Diego offered to marry 
 her ; she told him that she was of high lineage, and accepted his 
 hand ; but upon this condition — he was never to pronounce a 
 holy name ! — The fair bride had one foot like the foot of a 
 goat, this was her only blemish : yet Diego loved her well, 
 and had two children by her, a son named Iniguez Guei-ra, and 
 a daughter. It happened, as they were sitting at table, that the 
 Lord of Biscay tlu-ew a bone to the dogs : a mastiff and a 
 spaniel quarrelled about it, and the spaniel grasped the mastiff 
 by the throat and throttled him. ' Holy Mary !' exclaimed
 
 216 NOTES. 
 
 Don Diego, ' wLo ever saw the like !' — Tlie Lady instantly 
 grasped tlie hands of her children. Diego seized the boy, but the 
 mother glided through the air with her daughter, to the moun- 
 tains. In the coiu-se of time Don Diego Lopez invaded the 
 land of the Moors, who took him prisoner, and bound him, and 
 as a prisoner, they led him to Toledo. Greatly did luiguez 
 Guerra grieve at the captivity of his father, and the men of the 
 land told him that there was no help, unless he could find his 
 mother. Iniguez rode along to the mountains, and behold his 
 fairy mother stood upon the rock. ' My son,' said she, ' come to 
 me, for well do I know thy errand.' And she called Pardalo the 
 horse that ran without a rider in the mountains, and put a 
 bridle into his mouth : and told luiguez that he must give him 
 neither food nor water, nor unsaddle nor unbridle him, nor put 
 shoes upon his feet ; and that in one single day the demon 
 steed would carry him to Toledo." 
 
 Fojmlar Mythology of the Middle Ages. 
 Quarterly Review, No. 44, p. 362. 
 
 Page 42. 
 When one of Haro's princely race. 
 
 Don Diego Lopez was the ancestor of the noble and power- 
 ful family of Haro.
 
 NOTES. 217 
 
 Page 45. 
 Frederic Bariarossa. 
 
 Frederic 1st, Emperor of Germany, sou of Frederic Duke of 
 Suabia, born 1121, elected Emperor 1152. Drowned iu tlie 
 river Cydnus, in Ciiicia, whilst on liis way to tbe Holy Laud, 
 June 10th, 1190, aged CO. 
 
 Page 47. 
 
 Our ancient legend tells, 
 That in a cavern vast beneath these rocks. 
 Great Barbarossa dwells. 
 
 "In days of romance, a romantic immortality has been 
 bestowed by popular loyalty on those heroes who commanded 
 the admiration, as well as the fondness, of their countrymen. 
 Those who had seen their Kiug flushed with victory and 
 leading on his warriors, or enthroned in majesty and wisdom, 
 were almost reluctant to admit that he could die. Greece 
 revered her yet living Achilles in the white islands; the 
 Britons expected the awakening of Arthur, entranced in 
 Avalon ; and almost in our own days, it was thought that 
 Sebastian of Portugal would one day return and claim his 
 usurped dominions. Frederic Barbarossa has obtained tlie 
 same wild veneration. He was a monarch of extraordinary 
 intellect — the last sovereign of the Suabian dynasty ; and so
 
 218 NOTES. 
 
 little was Lis death believed iu tlie empire, that five impostors 
 successively assumed his uame, aud obtained credit with those 
 who were discontented with the reign of Rudolph of Haps- 
 biu-gh — the false Frederics were successively unmasked and 
 punished, yet the common people continued stubbornly to 
 believe that Frederic was alive, that he had warily and 
 willingly abdicated the imperial crown ; and they trusted that 
 he would re-appear when the good time should arrive." 
 
 Popular Mythology , page 171. 
 
 Page 47. 
 
 And when arrives the appointed hour, 
 Will come in wonted might. 
 
 " The Turks aud the Heathens are to be defeated by his 
 prowess, in a dreadful battle near Cologne, and he is to regain 
 possession of the Holy laud. Until the appointed time shall come, 
 the Emperor is secluded in the Castle of KyfiPhausen in the 
 Hercynian Forest, where he remains in a state not much 
 unlike the description given by Cervantes of the inhabitants 
 of the Cavern of Moutesinos. He slumbers on his throne, and 
 his red beard has grown through the stone table, on which his 
 arm rechnes, or as some say, has grown round and round it." 
 
 Ibid.
 
 NOTES. 219 
 
 Page 47. 
 
 They say that when, he ruled on earth, 
 He loved the minstrel's art. 
 
 Frederic was a muiiilicent ijatrou of leaiiiiiig, aud learned 
 men, of poets aud musicians, and himself enjoyed no mean 
 reputation as a Troubadour. 
 
 Page 47. 
 
 Whilst yet he spoke, /mm rock to rork 
 
 Bright glancing lights were seen. 
 And the Kaiser's daughter near them stood 
 
 " Frederic Barbarossa listens willingly to music. It came 
 to pass many years ago that a company of wandering musicians, 
 thought it might answer well, were they to serenade the 
 Emperor ; and so, stationing themselves on the rock, they began 
 to play a 'hunts up,' just as the cliurch clock of the town of 
 Tilledo sti-uck the hour of twelve. At the second strain, lights 
 were seen above on the crag, sparkling through the underwood, 
 and flitting behind the thick trunks of the trees ; aud 
 immediately afterwards the Emperor's daughter advanced grace- 
 fiillv towards the musicians, and beckoned Ihem to follow her. 
 The rocks opened and ihey m:uclu'd into the cavern. Tliere 
 was no lack of ^'ood cheer in the presence-chamber of tlic 
 Emperor, and they pinyed on merriiv lill ilic dawning of the
 
 220 NOTES. 
 
 morning. Then tLe Emperor nodded graciously to the mu- 
 sicians, and his daughter presented each of them with a green 
 branch and dismissed them. The imperial donation gave but 
 little satisfaction to the poor musicians, but the awe inspked 
 by his ghostly majesty compelled them to accept it without 
 murmuring ; and when they found themselves in the open air 
 again, all, save one, threw their branches scornfully away. 
 The musician who kept his branch, intended to preserve it 
 merely as a memorial of the adventure, but when he reached 
 his home it became heavy in his hand, rustling and glittering 
 with metallic sjjlendour, and every leaf was turned into a ducat 
 of pure gold : when the other musicians heard of his good 
 fortune, they went back to the rocks over which they had 
 passed, and searched day after day for the treasure of which 
 their destiny haddeprived them, but they searched in vain." 
 
 Popular Mythology , paije 372. 
 
 Page .55. 
 
 O'er this bright Land in days long passed aivay, 
 The brave Count Raymond held the sovereign sway. 
 
 Raymond Berenger, of the house of Barcelona, last Count 
 of Provence. A Prince distinguished for his learning, magnifi- 
 cence, and military prowess : also as a Poet of some preten- 
 sions. He married Beatrix, daughter of the Duke of Savoy.
 
 NOTES. 221 
 
 Page 60. 
 A Pilgrim from the shrine of Good St. James. 
 " Le bonlieur de cette maison de Provence, si on en croit 
 quelques auteurs, veiioit de la sage couduite d'un certain Komieu 
 ou Pelerin,* qui .irriva a la Cour du Comte comma par 
 miracle. lis disent que lors que ses afiaires sembloient estre 
 sans resource, et que sa maison paroissoit riiiuee a cause des 
 gi'andes dettes contractees par son mauvais menage, ee Eomieu 
 revenant de St. Jaques, s'insinua, je ne syay comment, dans sou 
 Palais, et gagna si bien sou esprit qu'il le fit son surintendant, 
 et luy a laudonua la conduite de tout. Ce qui reiissit si bien, 
 que dans pen de temps il remit les affiiires de Eaj-mond en 
 meilleur etat qu'on n'eust sceu jamais soubaiter, acquitant non 
 seulement ses dettes; mais encore augmentant ses revenus, 
 remplissaut ses coffres, et redonnant uu tel ordre et lustre a sa 
 maison delabree, qu'elle paroissoit de beaucoup plus magnifique 
 quelesCoursdesRois etderEmpereiu", etparson eclat etsaliber- 
 alite ravissoit les yeux et attiroitles coenrs de tons ses voisins." 
 
 Mezcray. 
 
 * Romieu en Provcii(;al ct Gascon, c'est u. dire Pelerin; et Eomivage 
 signifie Pelerinage. 
 
 Page 62. 
 And when in answer to his prayers were given, 
 Abundant harvests from benignant heaven. 
 
 " The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availetli 
 
 much.' 
 
 St. James, chap. 5, v. 16.
 
 222 NOTES. 
 
 Page 65. 
 
 In ALv were those 
 Who loni/ had been the holy Pihjrim'sfoes. 
 
 " On adjoute que ce Romieu estant faussement accuse de 
 malversation par les envieux de sa vertu, reudit un compte tres- 
 exact a son maistre, et s'estant ainsi justifie partit incontinent 
 de la avec sa malette et son bourdon seulement, ne voulant 
 emporter aucune recompense, et ne laissant point de connois- 
 sance ny de sou nom, uy de son pais, uy de son dessein." 
 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Page 71. 
 
 A legal crown each fair youmj brow shall grace, 
 Each shall be mother of a princely race. 
 
 Louis the Ninth of France man-ied Mai-guerite — Hem-y the 
 Tliird of England, Alianore or Eleanor — his brother Richard of 
 Cornwall, elected King of the Romans, espoused Sancia; 
 whilst Beatrix, who although the youngest sister became even- 
 tually her father's heiress, manied Charles of Anjou, brother of 
 the French King, and afterwards King of Naples, and Sicily. 
 
 Page 7.3. 
 In Paris now is held high festival. 
 
 St. Louis was married to Marguerite of Provence, at Sens, 
 A.D. 1234:, he being then eighteen years of age, and his bride 
 fifteen. They made their public entiy into Paris shortly after- 
 wards.
 
 NOTES. 223 
 
 Page 74. 
 Queen Blanche's eagle eye and brow of pride. 
 
 Blauclie of CastUle (the ' Lady Blanche' of Shakspeare's 
 Kiug .John) — widow of Louis VIII. and mother of St. Louis ; 
 the most heauriful and politic Princess of her time. She was 
 Kegent of France diu-ing the minority of her sou. Notwith- 
 standing her wisdom as a sovereign, and her devoteduess as a 
 mother, she has been accused of exhibiting in many respects a 
 most haughty and unfeminine disposition. She died A.D. 1252, 
 ditring the abseuce of St. Louis in the Holy Land. 
 
 Page 75. 
 One holy impulse seemed they both to feel. 
 
 It is impossible to imagine a union more perfect in every 
 respect, than that between St. Louis and Marguerite, as 
 described, not only by the French historians, but also by other 
 contemporary writers. Their whole lives seem to have been 
 spent in works of piety and benevolence, and in the society of 
 wise and good men. 
 
 Page 7.5. 
 
 And much she/eared, lest Marguerite should sway 
 The monarch's heart, and her otcn power decay. 
 
 Many anecdotes, some of them extremely ludicrous, are 
 told of Queen Blanche's excessive jealousy and suspicion, lest
 
 224 NOTES. 
 
 the young Queen should exercise an undue influence over her 
 husband's heart. 
 
 Page 76. 
 
 For Marguerite the gentle and the kind. 
 In C'ovrt intrigues no happiness could find. 
 
 " Marguerite ne se mesloit jamais d'aucunes affaires que 
 pour les malheureux, et pour demander le pardon des coupables." 
 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Page 77. 
 
 King Louis to redeem a solemn vow, 
 
 The fifth crusade was undertaken by St. Louis, in conse- 
 quence of a vow made by him whilst suflFering from a violent 
 and dangerous attack of fever, shortly after the battle of 
 Taillebourg. 
 
 Page 78. 
 The Oriflamme. 
 
 The consecrated standard of St. Dennis, formerly the 
 royal standard of France. 
 
 Page 7S. 
 For many a fair Princess and noble Dame, 
 
 Queen Marguerite accompanied her royal spouse on this 
 expedition, leaving her cliildren under the care of their Grand- 
 mother, Queen Blanche. In her train were her sisters Sancia,
 
 NllTES. 225 
 
 and Beati-ix ; her sisters-in-law, Matilde d'Artois and Jeanne 
 de Toulouse, (by some historians called Alice) and many others 
 of tlie Ladies of her Court. 
 
 Page 79. 
 At fair Marseilles embarked at leitgtii, 
 
 St. Louis embarked at Marseilles, August 25, 1248, 
 arrived at Cyprus, September 20 : after wintering there, he set 
 sail for Egypt on the 13th of May following, and anchored off 
 Damietta, June 4th : the city was taken on the Gth. 
 
 Page 80. 
 But noio the Monarch braves the rushing tide. 
 
 The King, seeing his standard-bearer ovei-powered, leapt 
 into the sea, sword in hand ; he was promptly followed by the 
 flower of his army, who formed with their lances an impene- 
 trable hedge against the rush of tlie Mameluke horse ; which 
 manoeuvre had much the same effect as the bayonets of their 
 descendants at the battle of the Pyramids, iu 1798. 
 
 Page 80. 
 Unmoved he listens to their wild applause, 
 
 The love of conquest and personal glory seems to have 
 liad but little influence upon the character of Louis; his
 
 226 NOTES. 
 
 motive for undertaking tlie expedition, was to seciu'e for 
 Cliristian PDgrims, of all nations, the privilege of worship- 
 ing in safety at the Holy Sepulchre ; and to release from 
 captivity such has had been sold as slaves by the Arabs. 
 
 Page 87. 
 
 Mournful to all, yet sadder far had been 
 That night of horror to the unhappy Queen. 
 
 " Marguerite qui estoit alors dans les travaux de I'accouche- 
 
 ment d'lm fils, qui pour cela fut nomme Tristan, supprimant 
 
 par son corn-age les extremes douleurs qu'elle sentoit, envoya 
 
 supplier leurs Capitaines de la venir trouver, et s'estant abaissee 
 
 a leur faire les plus ardentes prieres que la necessite put tirer 
 
 de sa bouche, gagna siu- exix apres beaucoup de larmes et de 
 
 conjurations, qu'ils demeiu-eroient jusqu'a tant qu'elle eut apris 
 
 la volonte du Eoy." 
 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Page 89. 
 The Genoese would from the city fly. 
 
 " EUe avoit des dandes Pisans et des Gennois, gens qui sui- 
 
 voient les armees pour le lucre plutost que pour I'honneiu-, 
 
 Vivandiers et Frippiers plutost que Soldats, lesquels ayant eu 
 
 nouveUes de la prise du Eoy commencerent a plier bagage poiu- 
 
 monter dans leurs vaisseaux." 
 
 Mezeray.
 
 NOTES. 227 
 
 Page 99. 
 Despite brave Melexala's mournful fate. 
 
 Tlie Sultan of Egypt, called by Mezeray, Melexala, was 
 assassinated by his Emirs during the captivity of St. Louis. 
 
 Page 99. 
 
 Who though at variance in all else, agree 
 On honottrable terms to set him free. 
 
 "By avoit a craindre qui'ils ne luy tinssent pas les conven- 
 tions que le Sultan avoit acordees : neantmoins sa patience, sa 
 modestie, sou courage, et la saintete de toutes ses actions 
 gagnerent tellement ces esprits sauguinaii-es, que mesme ils 
 delibererent long-temps entr'eux s'ils ne I'eliroient pas pour 
 leur Sultan ; et n'en ayantpu tomber d'accord ils luy accorderent 
 encore treves pour dix ans entr'eux et les Chrestiens." 
 
 Mezeray, 
 
 Page 100. 
 
 Richard of Cornwall summoned to his home, 
 With his loved Sancia braves the ocean foam. 
 To find ere long, beneath his native sky 
 Storms still more fierce — a gloomier destiny. 
 
 Richard of Cornwall having, as far as in his power, vindi- 
 cated the imperial dignity, returns to England, and dies of grief 
 
 q2
 
 228 NOTES. 
 
 at heaaing that his son Henry of Almagne, is assassinated at 
 
 Viterbo, by the ungi-ateful Guy de Montfort, whose life Richard's 
 
 intercession bad saved. 
 
 Andreirs's Great Britain. 
 
 Page 100. 
 
 Leaving the Monarch with a faithful few, 
 Alike to honour and religion true. 
 To plant the Cross — to preach the faith Divine — 
 In the wild vales of Holy Palestine. 
 
 " Mais voyous ce que fit nosti-e Roy Pelerin dans la Terre- 
 
 Sainte. Ses exercices ordinaires estoient de consoler les 
 
 Chrestiens du pais, de leiu- foiu-nir liberalement tout ce qui leur 
 
 manquoit, de racheter ceux qui estoient prisonniers entre les 
 
 mains des Barbares, de faii-e rebatir les Temples, de recueiUir 
 
 les saintes Reliques, et comme autrefois Jesus Christ son 
 
 Maistre, de prescher elficacement la Foy, et la veritable 
 
 Doctrine, non pas par des Sermons etudiez, mais par des 
 
 actions energiques." 
 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Page 101. 
 
 Devoted to the lasting good of France, 
 Their care was still her interests to advance; 
 
 " n exhortoit les Prelats etles autres Seigneurs d'en faire de 
 mesme, et de gai-der la justice aussi precieiisement que leurs
 
 NOTES. 229 
 
 Seigneiiries. II I'observoit et la rendoit a tout le monde avec 
 tant d'egalite, de doucevu- et de promptitude, qu'il avoit retably 
 entre ses sujets la chaiite Chrestienne, que les cliicaiies out 
 tant alteree aujourd'huy." 
 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Page 102. 
 Till, parted by the king's mistaken zeal 
 
 "Les Seigneurs du Levant toiu-noient les yeux vers laFrance, 
 et addressoient leurs prieres a Loiiis. Son corps accable de 
 vieillesse et use pai' les grandes fatigues, le dispensoit 
 d'executer une entreprise aussi difficUe qu'estoit celle de leiu' 
 aller donner secours ; mais le feu de la cbarite rallumoit sa 
 vigueur prescu'eteinte ; ce Prince tenoit a faveur de leur 
 accorder ce qu'Us demandoient, son Conseil toutefois u'en 
 estoit point d'avis, et luy remontroit que bien loin de faire un si 
 long chemin, Q ue pouvoit pas seul&ment aller de sa maison a 
 I'Eglise sans tomber en defaillance ; qu'en quittant la France il 
 I'abandonneroit aux violences des Grands, aux seditions de la 
 populace, aux concussions des Offlciers, aux factions des Princes 
 et il la merci des Estrangers ; que la moindre Province de son 
 Royaume estoit une partie de la Chrestiente plus considerable 
 que la Palestine ; et qu'il ne pouvoit pas disposer de sa personne 
 et de sa vie en faveur des Estrangers au prejudice des siens, et
 
 230 NOTES. 
 
 que les Fran9ois estoient aussi-bien Clirestiens que ceux du 
 
 Levant, et de plus ses Sujets. Toutes ces raisons ne piu'ent 
 
 change!" la resolution de ce Souverain." 
 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Paue 102. 
 
 She wept the unhappy destiny of him 
 
 JTItnse loir for her nor time nor change could dim ; 
 
 " Louis IX. or St. Louis of France, having invaded Africa, 
 with a view to render the coast tiibutaiy to Sicily, and to expe- 
 dite the conquest of Egypt, dies of a pestilential dysentery, with 
 most of his soldiers, under the walls of Tunis in 1272. 
 
 Andrews's Great Britain. 
 
 Page 102. 
 
 Hhe wept her gallant sons trho by his side, 
 Struck hy the plague, in prime of manliood died; 
 
 " Et la contagion se repandoit de plus en plus, plusieiu-s 
 Soldats et plusieurs Chevaliers moui-oient, ou par les blessures 
 qu'ils recevoient des mains des ennemis, ou par la maliguite 
 de I'air. Le mal s'augmentant les Chefs et les Princes ne s'en 
 purent pas exempter : le Legat du Pape y mourut, Philippe fils 
 aine du Roy languissoit d'une fievre quarte, son frere Jean 
 Tristan fut delivre de ces miseres par la perte de sa vie. 
 
 Mezeray.
 
 NOTES. ' 231 
 
 Page 102. 
 
 She mourned tvjo lovely daughters' early doom, 
 Who perished in their beauty's brightest bloom. 
 
 " II eut de sa femme Marguerite de Provence la plus heureuse 
 
 lignee que jamais ait eu Prince de la ten-e, cinq filles. — 
 
 1. Blanche, qui mourut jeuue. 2. Isabel mariee a Tliibaut 
 
 second, Roy de Navarre, et Comi)te de Brie et de Champagne. 
 
 Son mary estaut mort a Trapes en Sicile au retour de la 
 
 Croisade d'Afrique, die s'en revenoit, et ne laissa point 
 
 d'enfans." 
 
 Mezeray. 
 
 Page 108. 
 
 The night breeze sighed through Gazna's halls, 
 
 And the moonlight shed its ray 
 Where, by the fountain' s cooling falls. 
 
 The dying Mahmoud lay. 
 
 " There is a tale in the Nigaristan of Kemal-Pascha-zade, 
 that one of the Sultans of Kliorassan saw in a dream, 
 Mahmoud a hundred years after his death, wandering about 
 his palace, — his flesh rotten, his bones carious, but his eyes 
 full, anxious and restless. 
 
 This was that great Malmioud the Gaznevide, who was the 
 first Mohammedan conqueror that entered India, and the first 
 who dropt the title of Malek, and assumed that of Sultan
 
 232 NOTES. 
 
 ill its place. He it was who, after liaving broken to pieces 
 with liis own liauils the gigantic idol of Soumenat, put to 
 death fifty thousand of its worshippers, as a further proof of 
 his holy Mohammedan indignation. — In the last days of bis 
 life, when a mortal disease was consuming him, and he him- 
 self knew that no human means could arrest its course, he 
 ordered all his costliest apparel, and his vessels of silver and 
 gold, and his pearls and precious stones, the inestimable spoils 
 of the East, to be displayed before him. It was in the royal 
 residence which he had built for himself in Gazna, and which 
 he called the palace of Fehcity, that he took from this display, 
 wherewith he had formerly gratified the pride of his eye, a 
 mournful lesson ; and in the then heartfelt conviction that all 
 is vanity, he wept like a child. " What toils," said he, " what 
 " dangers, what fatigues of body and mind have I endured for 
 " the sake of acfiuiring these treasures, and what caies in 
 " preserving them — and now I am about to die and leave them !" 
 In this same palace he was interred, and there it vvas that his 
 unhappy ghost, a century afterwards, was believed to wander." 
 
 The Doctor, vol. 3, p. 245.
 
 NOTES. 233 
 
 Page 113. 
 
 But vain iras that unequal strife 
 
 Before the foeman's power — 
 They fell as falls the ripened corn 
 
 Beneath the thunder shower. — 
 
 The battle of St. Jaques was fought in 1444: between the 
 French and Swiss, iu which the latter consisting of 4000 men, 
 were opposed to an army of 20,000, and after performing prodi- 
 gies of valour were annihilated to a man. — Moiich die Swiss, who 
 had guided the French, rode over the field after the action, ex- 
 ulting in the sight of his murdered foes and compatriots ; which 
 so roused the indignant spirit of a Captain of Uri, who lay 
 mortally woimded, that coUecting his remaining strength, he 
 seized a huge stone and dashed it at the ti-aitor, who soon after- 
 wards expired. 
 
 Page 124. 
 
 If I had been Don John d'Albret, 
 
 The chieftain of a warlike race, 
 We never had beheld this day 
 
 Of bitter anguish and disgrace. 
 
 "If I had been Don John d'Albret," said the spirited 
 Catharine de Foix to her husband, " and you had been Cathaiine 
 de Foix, we had not been driven from Navarre."
 
 234 NOTES. 
 
 Page 127. 
 NAVARRETE EL MUDO. 
 
 Navan-ete, Juan Fernandez, a Spanish Painter, surnamed 
 El Miido, from his being deaf and dumb, born in 15C2. — He 
 was appointed Painter to the King, and his best pieces are pre- 
 served in the Escurial. From his fine style of colouring he 
 obtained the name of the Spanish Titian ; but he was so fond 
 of introducing into his pictiu-es a dog, a cat, or a partridge, that 
 scarcely any, even of his sacred subjects, are without them. 
 He died in 1579. 
 
 Page 134. 
 LAMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF FERRAEA. 
 
 Eennee of France, daughter of Louis XII. and Anne of Brit- 
 tany, was born at Blois in 1510. After having been betrothed 
 in 1515 to Charles of Austria, afterwards Emperor, and 
 demanded in marriage some years later by Henry VIII. of 
 England, she was married in 1527 to Hercules, Duke of 
 Ferrara, a prince whose insignificance was his principal 
 recommendation to her brother-in-law Francis I. — Owing to her 
 supposed predilections for the Reformed Faith the Duke her 
 husband separated her from her children, and in many other 
 respects behaved to her most cruelly and faithlessly.
 
 NOTES. 235 
 
 She was a very learned Princess, being well read in History, 
 Languages, Mathematics, and even Astrology. She also gave 
 much attention to Theology, and became an early convert to 
 the doctrines of Calvin, who paid her a visit in disguise. — 
 After the death of Hercules the Duke of Fen-ara, she returned 
 to France, where she died in the Chateau of Montargis, in 1575. 
 
 When her children were taken away, her eldest daughter 
 Anne was sent into France, where she afterwards became the 
 wife of Fran9ois, second Duke of Guise, who having summoned 
 her to give up some malcontents that had taken refuge in her 
 castle, threatened an attack if his demands were not complied 
 with ; when, it is said, she haughtily declai-ed, that if he did, 
 she would place herself first in the breach, " to see if he would 
 have the insolence to kill the daughter of a king." 
 
 Page 139. 
 JUNOT TO NAPOLEON. 
 
 " Shortly before his death Junot wrote a letter to the Emperor, 
 which, amidst much excitement arising from commencing 
 insanity, contained expressions sti-ongly descriptive of the 
 feelings entertained by his early companions in arms at that 
 period. — " I who love you witli the adoration of the savage for 
 "the sun — I who live only in you, even I, implore you to
 
 236 NOTES. 
 
 " terminate tliis eternal war — let ns have peace I I wish to 
 " repose my worn-out head, my pain-racked limbs in my home, 
 " in the midst of my family and friends. — I desire to enjoy 
 " that which I have purchased with what is more precious than 
 " all the treasures of the Indies — with my blood ! — the blood 
 " of an honoui'able man — of a good Frenchman I — I ask trau- 
 " quillity purchased by twenty-two years of active service and 
 " seventeen wounds, from which the blood has flowed, first for 
 " my couuti'y — then for your gloi'y !" 
 
 Alison's History of Europe. 
 
 Page 170. 
 
 The wise, the noble, and the great, no less 
 Than the mean rabble, lost in nothingness .' 
 
 In reference only, of coui'se, to thek parts in this life. 
 
 Page 200. 
 
 Mirrored in thy clear flood 
 Are mouldering Towers, relics of those whose name, Sfc. 
 
 William Fitz Duncan, founder of Bolton Abbey ; and after- 
 wards the Cliffords, at one time Lords of nearly the whole of 
 Wharfdale.
 
 NOTES. 237 
 
 ROME BURIED IN HER RUINS. 
 
 Since translating tJiis sonnet I have met with a correspon- 
 ding one in Spenser, amongst a collection entitled " the Ruines 
 of Rome, by Bellay", which I was not previously aware of. — 
 The following are the respective versions from Quevedo and 
 Spenser. 
 
 QUEVEDO. 
 
 " Buscas en Roma a Roma, 6 Peregrine, 
 
 I en Roma misma a Roma no la hallas. 
 
 Cadaver son, las que ostento murallas, 
 
 I tumba de si propio el Aventino. 
 lace, donde Reinaba el Palatiuo, 
 
 I lunadas de el tiempo las medallas, 
 
 Mas se muestrau destro90 a las batallas 
 
 De las edades, que Blason Latino. 
 Solo el Tibre quedo, cuio corriente. 
 
 Si ciudad la rego, ia sepoltiu-a 
 
 La Uora con fimesto son doliente. 
 Roma, en tu grandeza, en tii lierraosurn 
 
 Hui«) lo que era firme, y solamente 
 
 Lo fu^tevo permanece, y dura."
 
 238 NOTES. 
 
 FROM SPENSER. 
 
 " Thou stranger I which for Rome in Rome now seekest, 
 
 And nought of Rome in Rome perceiVst at all, 
 
 These same old walls, old arches, which thou seest. 
 
 Old palaces, is that which Rome men call. 
 
 Behold what wreck, what mine, and what waste. 
 
 And how that she, which with her mighty powre 
 
 Tam'd all the world, hath tam'd herself at last, 
 
 The prey of time, which all things doth devoure. 
 
 Rome now of Rome is th' only funeraU, 
 
 And only Rome of Rome hath victory ; 
 
 Ne ought save Tiber, hastening to his fall, 
 
 Remaias of all, world's inconstancy ! 
 
 That which is firm doth flit and fall away. 
 
 And that is flitting doth abide and stay." 
 
 THE END.
 
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