JACQUELINE. 1813. [This Poem was first published in the same volume with Lord Byron's 'Lara.' Neither author then put his name to his Poem.-ED.] "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 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? Then, thro' the scanty orchard stealing, At such an hour in such a night, It looked as all within were blest? Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone ; By Condé at Rocroy he stood; By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. Aloft in Notre Dame to wave; Upon a purer, nobler breast. He slung his old sword by his side, And snatched his staff and rushed to save; Then sunk-and on his threshold cried, "Oh lay me in my grave! -Constance! Claudine! where were ye then ? But stand not there. Away! away! Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay. "Unhappy in thy youth!" he said. And who but she could soothe the boy, Oh! 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; |