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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?
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. Two banners of Castile he gave Aloft in Notre Dame to wave;
Nor did thy cross, St. Louis, rest
And who but she could soothe the boy,