"TWAS Autumn; thro' 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 neighbouring tower She starts, and what has caught her eye? Flies from her home, the humble sphere Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone; -And Jacqueline, his child, was gone! Oh what the madd'ning thought that came? Dishonour coupled with his name! By Condé at Rocroy he stood; By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. Aloft in Notre Dame to wave; Nor did thy cross, St. Louis, rest He slung his old sword by his side, And snatched his staff and rushed to save; -Constance! Claudine! where were ye then? 66 Unhappy in thy youth!" he said. "Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain; And who but she could soothe the boy, Or turn his tears to tears of joy? Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears! |