And dark their slumber, dark with dreams

Of slow defeat and fall.
Yet a few hearts of chivalry
Rose high to breast the storm,
And one-of all the loftiest there-
Thrill'd in a woman's form.

A woman, meekly bending

O'er the slumber of her child,
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,
As the Virgin Mother's mild.
Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe,
'Midst the clash of spear and lance,

And a strange, wild bower was thine, young queen!
Fair Marguerite of France!

A dark and vaulted chamber,

Like a scene for wizard-spell,

Deep in the Saracenic gloom

Of the warrior citadel;

And there 'midst arms the couch was spread,

And with banners curtain'd o'er,

For the daughter of the minstrel-land,

The gay Provençal shore!

For the bright queen of St. Louis,

The star of court and hall!

But the deep strength of the gentle heart,

Wakes to the tempest's call!

Her lord was in the Paynim's hold,

His soul with grief oppress'd,

Yet calmly lay the desolate,

With her young babe on her breast!

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.

277

There were voices in the city,

Voices of wrath and fear

"The walls grow weak, the strife is vain,

We will not perish here!

Yield! yield! and let the crescent gleam
O'er tower and bastion high!
Our distant homes are beautiful-
We stay not here to die!"

They bore those fearful tidings

To the sad queen where she lay-
They told a tale of wavering hearts,
Of treason and dismay :

The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek,
The sparkle to her eye-

"Now call me hither those recreant knights
From the bands of Italy!"

Then through the vaulted chambers

Stern iron footsteps rang;

And heavily the sounding floor

Gave back the sabre's clang.

They stood around her-steel-clad men,
Moulded for storm and fight,
But they quail'd before the loftier soul
In that pale aspect bright.

Yes-as before the falcon shrinks
The bird of meaner wing,

So shrank they from th' imperial glance

Of her that fragile thing!

1 The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French historian to the Knights of Pisa.

VOL. VI.- -24

And her flute-like voice rose clear and high,
Through the din of arms around,
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,
As a silver clarion's sound.

"The honour of the Lily

Is in your hands to keep,

And the banner of the Cross, for Him
Who died on Calvary's steep:

And the city which for Christian prayer
Hath heard the holy bell-

And is it these your hearts would yield
To the godless infidel?

"Then bring me here a breastplate And a helm, before ye fly,

And I will gird my woman's form,

And on the ramparts die!

And the boy whom I have borne for woe, But never for disgrace,

Shall go within mine arms to death

Meet for his royal race.

"Look on him as he slumbers
In the shadow of the lance!
Then go, and with the Cross forsake
The princely babe of France!
But tell your homes ye left one heart
To perish undefiled;

A woman and a queen, to guard

Her honour and her child!"

TO CAROLINE.

Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves
When winds are in the wood;

And a deepening murmur told of men
Roused to a loftier mood.

And her babe awoke to flashing swords,
Unsheath'd in many a hand,

As they gather'd round the helpless One,
Again a noble band!

"We are thy warriors, lady!

True to the Cross and thee!

The spirit of thy kindling words
On every sword shall be!

Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast,

Rest-we will guard thee well!

St. Dennis for the Lily-flower,
And the Christian citadel!"

TO CAROLINE.

WHEN thy bounding step I hear,
And thy soft voice, low and clear;
When thy glancing eyes I meet,
In their sudden laughter sweet-
Thou, I dream, wert surely born
For a path by care unworn!
Thou must be a shelter'd flower,
With but sunshine for thy dower.

Ah! fair child, not e'en for thee
May this lot of brightness be;

279

Yet, if grief must add a tone
To thine accents now unknown;
If within that cloudless eye
Sadder thought must one day lie,
Still, I trust the signs which tell
On thy life a light shall dwell,
Light-thy gentle spirit's own,
From within around thee thrown.

THE WANDERER.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHMIDT VON LUBECK.
Ich komme vom Gebirge, herr," &c.

I COME down from the hills alone,
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan!
I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sighing—where?

The sunshine round seems dim and cold,
And flowers are pale, and life is old,
And words fall soulless on my ear-

-Oh! I am still a stranger here.

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own?
Still sought for, long'd for, never known?
The land, the land of hope, of light,

Where glow my roses freshly bright.

And where my friends, the green paths tread,
And where in beauty rise my dead;
The land that speaks my native speech,
The blessed land I may not reach!