'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 stops, she pants; with lips apart 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. He slung his old sword by his side, And snatched his staff and rushed to save; Then sunk and on his threshold cried, -Constance! Claudine! where were ye then? And who but she could soothe the boy, Or turn his tears to tears of joy? Oh! she was good as she was fair. |