Constance De Castile A Poem, in Ten Cantos. By William Sotheby |
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Constance De Castile | ||
69
XII.
Pierc'd to the soul with Pedro's shame,
The youth's pale cheek seem'd flush'd with flame:
“Th' usurper, rebel Trastamere,
“With Pedro's guilt fills every ear.
“If true such tales, saints only know,
“But, sooth, his soul is bow'd with woe.—
The youth's pale cheek seem'd flush'd with flame:
“Th' usurper, rebel Trastamere,
“With Pedro's guilt fills every ear.
“If true such tales, saints only know,
“But, sooth, his soul is bow'd with woe.—
“Oh, my kind Master! all defame,
“All load with harsh reproach thy name;
“But still the sun-shine of thy pow'r
“Beam'd on me from my natal hour.
“Pedro, methought, my Sire had been,
“My mother, Castile's honour'd Queen.
“An orphan at her breast I fed:
“She too, is number'd with the dead.—
“All load with harsh reproach thy name;
“But still the sun-shine of thy pow'r
“Beam'd on me from my natal hour.
“Pedro, methought, my Sire had been,
“My mother, Castile's honour'd Queen.
“An orphan at her breast I fed:
“She too, is number'd with the dead.—
“Might Julian's death his sovereign aid,
“And free the fair Castillian Maid,
“How gladly would I bless my grave!
“These tears are theirs—'tis all I have.”
“And free the fair Castillian Maid,
“How gladly would I bless my grave!
“These tears are theirs—'tis all I have.”
Constance De Castile | ||