JACQUELINE. I. 'T WAS Autumn; through Provence had ceased The vintage, and the vintage-feast. The sun had set behind the hill, The moon was up, and all was still, And from the convent's neighboring tower At such an hour in such a night, Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone; By Condé at Rocroy he stood; By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. He slung his old sword by his side, And snatched his staff and rushed to save; Then sunk and on his threshold cried, "O, lay me in my grave! Constance! Claudine! where were ye then? But stand not there. Away! away! To mourn is all thou hast to do; And who but she could soothe the boy, Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears! O! she was good as she was fair. And, as she grew, her modest grace, She half inclined to sadness. Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; |