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 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, Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone; By Condé at Rocroy he stood; By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. Two banners of Castile he gave Nor did thy cross, St. Louis rest He slung his old sword by his side, 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. Though old, and now forgot of men, Both must not leave him in a day." Then, and he shook his hoary head, "Unhappy in thy youth!" he said. "Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain; No voice sends back thy name again. To mourn is all thou hast to do; Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too." And who but she could soothe the boy, Or turn his tears to tears of joy? Long had she kissed him as he slept, Long o'er his pillow hung and wept; And, as she passed her father's door, She stood as she would stir no more. But she is gone, and gone for ever! No, never shall they clasp her-never! They sit and listen to their fears; And he, who thro' the breach had led Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears! Oh! she was good as she was fair. As pure in thought as angels are, When little, and her eyes, her voice, And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace, When, shading with her hand her face, Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; And her dark eyes-how eloquent! Till the last light withdrew. Every day, and all day long, At every meal an empty chair Tells him that she is not there; She, who would lead him where he went, Tusk of elephant and gold; Which, when a tale is long, dispenses Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses. In her who mourned not, when they missed her, The old a child, the young a sister? No more the orphan runs to take |