JACQUELINE. I. '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 The clock had tolled the midnight-hour, When Jacqueline came forth alone, Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown; A guilty thing and full of fears, Yet ah, how lovely in her tears! She starts, and what has caught her eye? She stops, she pants; with lips apart She listens to her beating heart! Then, thro' the scanty orchard stealing, The clustering boughs her track concealing, She flies, nor casts a thought behind, At such an hour in such a night, It looked as all within were blest? Oh what the madd'ning thought that came? By Condé at Rocroy he stood; By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. Two banners of Castile he gave 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 ; "Oh lay me in my grave! -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? |