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1. '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?
What—but her shadow gliding by?
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,
But gives her terrors to the wind;
Flies from her home, the humble sphere
Of all her joys and sorrows here,
Her father's house of mountain-stone,
And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown.
At such an hour in such a night,
So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright,
Who would have seen, and not confessed
It looked as all within were blest?
What will not woman, when she loves ?
Yet lost, alas, who can restore her?-
She lifts the latch, the wicket moves;
And now the world is all before her.

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;

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