THERE was music on the midnight: From a royal fane it roll'd;

And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.

Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hush'd the listener's breath;

For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death!

There was hurrying through the midnight,

A sound of many feet;

But they fell with a muffled fearfulness
Along the shadowy street:

And softer, fainter grew their tread,

As it near'd the minster gate,

Whence a broad and solemn light was shed From a scene of royal state.

Full glow'd the strong red radiance
In the centre of the nave,

Where the folds of a purple canopy
Swept down in many a wave;
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom;

For something lay 'midst their fretted gold,
Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavilion,
High on a glittering throne,
A woman's form sat silently,
'Midst the glare of light alone.
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still-
The drapery on her breast.

Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill,

So stonelike was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music
Shook e'en the dust below,

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

When the burning gold of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!
Then died away that haughty sound,

And from the encircling band

Stepp'd prince and chief, 'midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand.

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering

Over each martial frame,

As one by one, to touch that hand,
Noble and leader came?

Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,
Under the parted ebon hair,
Sit on the pale, still face?

Death! death! canst thou be lovely

Unto the eye of life?

Is not each pulse of the quick high breast
With thy cold mien at strife?—

It was a strange and fearful sight,

The crown upon that head,

The glorious robes, and the blaze of light,
All gather'd round the Dead!

And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,

And white lips rigidly compress'd,

Lest the strong heart should fail :
King Pedro, with a jealous eye,
Watching the homage done.
By the land's flower and chivalry
To her, his martyr'd one.

But on the face he looked not,
Which once his star had been;

To every form his glance was turn'd,

Save of the breathless queen :

Though something, won from the grave's embrace, Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,

It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts,

Alike of wasted worth!

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

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

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

As the mourners through the sounding aisle

In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,

And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,

With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train;

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,

When they lower'd the dust again.

'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above

Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love?
Mightier thou wast and art.

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.

THOU 'rt passing hence, my brother!
O my earliest friend, farewell!
Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice,
In a lonely home to dwell;

And from the hills, and from the hearth,
And from the household tree,

With thee departs the lingering mirth,
The brightness goes with thee.

But thou, my friend, my brother!
Thou 'rt speeding to the shore

Where the dirge-like tone of parting words
Shall smite the soul no more!
And thou wilt see our holy dead,
The lost on earth and main:
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts
Thou wilt be bound again!

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood
That yet his name is heard

On the blue mountains, whence his youth
Pass'd like a swift, bright bird.

The light of his exulting brow,

The vision of his glee,

Are on me still-Oh! still I trust
That smile again to see.

And tell our fair young sister,

The rose cut down in spring, That yet my gushing soul is fill'd With lays she lov'd to sing.