 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XXV.
Another stifled shriek—amongThe motley group the warrior sprung;
There lay a form, how lovely! prest
Fast to a kneeling old man's breast;
The peasant's cap beside them thrown,
Her dark locks round luxuriant strown,
Her eye half clos'd,—his grasp within,—
“Tis the page! Paulo!”—“Imogen!”—
Aye, Imogen!—Gonsalvo there
Supports that fragile woman fair,
While the coarse crowd all idly look,
All, all the Father soften'd woke,
As the cold iron melts the ice;—
His pride was nature's sacrifice.
Beneath the day, the shallowest stream
The first, reflects the sparkling beam;
169
The quickest tear to sorrow give;
But who shall speak the torrent wide
That gushing came from that heart of pride!
| The bridal of Vaumond | |