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 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, 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 ; Then sunk and on his threshold cried, 66 Oh lay me in my grave! -Constance! Claudine! where were ye then? But stand not there. Away! away! Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay. And who but she could soothe the boy, Or turn his tears to tears of joy? They sit and listen to their fears; And he, who through the breach had led Over the dying and the dead, Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears! Oh! she was good as she was fair. When little, and her eyes, her voice, And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her downcast look 'twas heaven to trace, When, shading with her hand her face, Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; On the red floor in diamonds threw, |