University of Virginia Library

CANTO IV.

I.

Joy cannot claim a purer bliss,
Nor grief a dew from stain more clear,
Than female friendship's meeting kiss,
Than female friendship's parting tear.
How sweet, the heart's full bliss to pour
To her, whose smile must crown the store!
How sweeter still, to tell of woes
To her, whose faithful breast would share
In every grief, in every care,
Whose sigh can lull them to repose!
O blessed sigh! There is no sorrow,
But from thy breath can sweetness borrow;
Ev'n to the pale and drooping flower
That fades in love's neglectful hour,
Ev'n with her woes can friendship's power
One happier feeling blend:
'Tis from her restless bed to creep,
And sink, like wearied babe, to sleep,
On the soft couch her sorrows steep,
The bosom of a friend.

II.

So the two royal cousins lay,
Clasp'd in each other's arms, till day,
And Isabel, on Blanch's breast,
Lull'd by her sighs, had sunk to rest.
The morning beam, with joyous light,
Athwart the lattice glimmer'd bright;
And Blanch the lovely Queen could view,
Her shrunken form, her pallid hue;
Save that one cheek, with kindly flush,
Stole from her warmth a soften'd blush;
And seem'd, on its fair pillow thrown,
A maiden rose on Parian stone.
Her eyelids clos'd, yet moist with dews,
An air of holy grief diffuse;
And yet on lips unknown to guile,
Sits (banish'd long!) a holier smile;
That smile the mourner's heart can cheer;
Why is the parting hour so near!

III.

In that lone bower remembrance brought
Years long gone by to Blanch's thought:
When she and Isabella stray'd
In dear Aledo's pleasant shade;
Stray'd, like twin lambs, the broom among,
Listening the linnet's cheerful song.
She saw her still, a nut-brown child,
With eyes whose dark beams, flashing wild,
Caught radiance from her glowing cheeks;
And dimples, dappling when she smil'd,
As the May morning breaks.
O how her own dear father lov'd
To watch the playmates as they rov'd;
At distance store of fruit to place,
For the gay victor in the race,
And join himself the sportive chace,
Determin'd still to lose:
And mark the happy infant's toil,
Dividing with nice care the spoil,
And Isabel to choose!
Then to his knee the gipsy sprang;
While his own fairest Blanch would hang,
With clasping arms, around his neck:
And he would kiss the urchins bold;
And love them both, and oft infold
Their locks, like ebony and gold,
That curious caskets deck.

IV.

Such were their infant joys; too short!
That dear, dear father died!
But at grave task, or merry sport,
The friends were side by side.
The vassals, when, with girlish grace,
They first adventur'd in the chace,
Their future lady could not trace;
Alike their robes and jewels rare;
They knew not if the dark-hair'd maid,
Or she whose auburn ringlets play'd,
Were rich Aledo's heir.
They had nor wish, nor hope, nor thought,
That was not still in common:
And, even when they sprang to woman,
Beauty and love no difference wrought.
Oh, Blanch still saw the pretty blush,
Still heard the voice, half chok'd with shame,
Still felt the trembling burning flush,
When first she breath'd Alfonzo's name;
She saw the blushes, brighter still,
The sparkling bliss, the lovely thrill,
When, trembling with confusion sweet,
She caught the monarch at her feet:
She saw her in her bridal geer;—
And turn'd to view the mourner here.

V.

She wakes! ah, vain it were to say,
How sadly breaks to them the day!
That morn, for aye, th' Alhambra gate
The Queen must leave, with princely state;
And tho' a page within her train,
Blanch follows her to Christian Spain,
The parting hour is near.
The Princess left not to the hand
Of time, or chance, her kind command;
Never did Blanch, one single hour,
Defer a blessing in her power!
Speaking, she brush'd away a tear.

VI.

“My cousin, by our childish love!
By him who, hovering now above,
Guards us; by him, blest infant, swear
To grant thy Blanch's parting prayer!
Thou wilt—my only Isabel,
In thy pure breast what feelings dwell,
By my own heart I know:
Thou wouldst to Don Alfonzo's ear
My tarnish'd fame attempt to clear:
But if my life, my peace be dear,
That fatal wish forego.
For ever hush'd be every sound,
The wretched parent's heart can wound:
He deems me dead—I only live
For that which thou alone canst give.
I only live, my Queen to bless,
And sometimes hear her happiness.

VII.

“This is my prayer, and thou hast sworn,
Tho' thou shouldst hear thy Blanch's fame
Aspers'd, and stain'd with murder's name;
Tho' hypocrites, with brow of scorn,
Bear witness to my shame;
Never by sign, or look, or word,
Tell to the monarch he has err'd.
My most belov'd, attend!
Be Blanch's very name forgot!
None think me living—name me not!
Enough for me, that free from blot
Thou knowst me for thy friend.”

VIII.

“And such a friend! O never yet
Had earthly friendship such a debt!
How we have lov'd! Ev'n in the hour
Of bridal vows, of princely power,
I wept to leave thee, Blanch!
And my dear boy's first lisping tone,
When speech began”—O wretched one!
That thought recall'd his dying moan,
And op'd the wound no skill could staunch.
She spake no more: tho' Blanch's tear
Hung on her cheek, like dew-drop clear
Upon the lily's snowy bell;
Vain was all art to soothe or cheer;
Unfelt the soften'd accents fell.

IX.

Silent she sate, till he who came,
To Murcia's court to bear the dame,
(With many a gallant count and knight
And many a page and lady bright,)
He, skill'd to wield detraction's sword,
Himself the proudest knight that e'er
Sought favor of a lady fair,
Merida's haughty lord,
In litter deck'd with bright array,
Bore her, like some pale corse, away.
The motion strange, the freshening air
Reviv'd her then: no Blanch was there.

X.

She, by the good Francisco's side,
A seeming boy, was doom'd to ride;
Expos'd to scoffings rude and vain,
And jeers from all the menial train.
They marvell'd much, with gownsman old
To find a youth so fair of mould;
In faith 'twas pity! Such a boy
Was fram'd for some sweet lady's joy!
Pity, the beams of that blue eye,
By fast and prayer to mortify!
And ruby lips were never made,
To ply the cowled father's trade!
She heard them not; the sainted maid;—
Why then repeat their ribaldry!

XI.

Oh, in her mind far other thought
Rankled, by love and pity taught!
Almanzor's last fond parting word,
By Heli told, still, still she heard:
And still she turn'd her anxious eye
Tow'rds the far distant balcony;
Where a last glance to catch he stood,
Till winding down the hilly wood,
The train, in long procession dight,
And she, the jewel heavenly bright,
His lovely Blanch, was hid from sight!
Still thro' the long, long day she turn'd
To the Alhambra's lofty tower;
And as her breast with anguish burn'd,
She closer press'd the orange flower;
Sole relic of Almanzor's bower,
To soothe, to cheer, how vast its power!
He sent it to the drooping maid;
And some as precious token pray'd
By his dear lady given
O well that gift her love express'd!
The crucifix from her fair breast
In Heli's hand the Princess press'd,
“Say 'tis the guide to me, to heaven!”
Emotion chok'd the rest.

XII.

No more is now Granada seen,
Nor high Remada's cliff;
And distance veils the city's queen,
The fair Generaliffe.
Tedious and sad the journey wore
To them, who woe's sad burthen bore;
Yet all too soon the parting came.
Tho' few, and short, and far between,
The stolen moments when, unseen,
They mingled sighs and tear-drops sheen,
Still comfort each short pause might claim.
'Twas sweet, 'mid voices mingling round,
To listen for one silver sound;
To catch a stolen glance; to feel
The whisper'd sigh on silence steal;
Ev'n the same fragrant gale to breathe;
Or garlands from one bower to wreathe.
Such tender joys ineffable,
Deem not with love alone they dwell!
The better love, the purer flame,
That lurks in friendship's sacred name,
‘Love without wings’ such joys may claim.
And such they felt, whose parting sigh,
Whose heart's dull dreary void was nigh,
Who either would for either die!

XIII.

Blanch must away. One last embrace,
And of her lovely form no trace
Shall with the Queen remain.
She goes!—Was it the wind that sigh'd
Through trees by Guadalquivir's tide?
Was it the poplar's shade that dyed
The river's breast with dusky stain?
Or was it the dark Juan stole,
Foul listener! from the moon-light knoll?
Fain would the Queen his thought descry;
But, though mistrust lurk'd in his eye,
His every word was courtesy.

XIV.

Now Murcia's lofty towers they near'd;
And now Alfonzo's train appear'd.
The courtiers hail'd the rescued dame;
The people join'd the loud acclaim;
And all with joyful welcome came;
While the proud Monarch sprang to clasp
His long-lost Queen, in love's fond grasp.
Blest was the hour to all but one;
Grief dwelt with Isabel alone!
She saw the wood, the very glade
Where that most precious quarry bled:
Frenzy came not; with memory curst,
Her panting heart seem'd like to burst.
She shrank from Don Alfonzo's hand,
And writh'd and murmur'd “Ferdinand!”
“Comfort thee, sweet! Partake my joy,
Dry up thy tears!” “My boy! my boy!”

XV.

“My Isabel!”—The King again
Sought to repress her sorrow vain,
“He was our joy; but light all pain,
Whilst we are spar'd to bless each other!
Calm for thy husband's sake the strife,
Who lives but in thy peace, thy life!”
“Dost thou conjure me as thy wife,
And was I not his mother?
O most unnatural! The she-wolf
Will plunge down the rift mountain's gulf,
To save or to avenge her whelp!
Whilst I—” “How could thy feeble help,
My Queen, our bleeding infant save?
Life visits not the tranquil grave.—
But for revenge, my Isabel,
The murderess—” The scream that fell
From that fair dame was horrible!
Dreadful to hear, to feel, to tell.

XVI.

Pale as her lovely infant's clay,
Her ladies bore the Queen away.
Alfonzo walk'd apart the while,
With cloudy brow and folded arm;
And Merida, with bitter smile,
Foresaw the darkly coming harm;
He hated all whom Blanch had lov'd,
But most the Queen his hatred prov'd.—
Alfonzo, starting from his thought,
The venerable Pedro sought,
“Is it not strange, Don Pedro, tell,
This frantic grief of Isabel?
She lov'd the child—I lov'd him too!
It was a glorious boy!
So like his mother!—still I view,
Still share, her tearful joy,
When first alone he tottering came
To her dear feet—first breath'd her name!
It was a glorious boy!”
He paus'd, and hung his head, to hide
Parental fondness' gushing tide.

XVII.

None spake. “Pedro, was it not said
By her, the murderess—who is dead!
That grief from Isabella fled;
And love and joy could only rest,
Sweet inmates of her peaceful breast?
Yet mourning still, so long; so wild;
No thought for me; still, still the child!”
“Perchance, my liege, the grief subdued
By time, th' accustom'd scene renew'd;
And time again will fade the trace
Of her lost boy from every place;
She views him now ev'n in your face:
Hence sprang her greetings cold.”
“Cold!” cried the King; “Thou 'st terms of grace!
By Heaven! She shrank from my embrace
As 'twere a serpent's fold!

XVIII.

“Merida, thou didst view the Queen,
While captive to the Moor;
Is't sudden, this wild frantic mien?
Was she thus cold before?
Merida, speak! Hast thou forgot
All use of words?” “I saw her not,
My liege, till from th' Alhambra tower,
Without the gates, she join'd our power.”
“And then?” “Dread Sir, the royal dame
In a close-cover'd litter came;
From me, through each successive day,
Haughty and cold, she turn'd away;
From me, from all; save Inez fair,
And one young page, of beauty rare,
Whom freed from Moorish chains we bare.”

XIX.

“Where is that page?”—“With all our train,
He sought the bounds of Christian Spain:
He parted then, upon the bank
Of the soft murmuring Guadalquivir,
Oh, many a tear the slow waves drank,
And many a sigh low-whisper'd sank
Through alders that o'erhung the river.”
“Whose sigh? Whose tear?” “My liege, it chanc'd,
That night I wander'd by the tide,
And leaning by the poplar's side,
I heard a voice in woe entranc'd:
Sweet was the sound—and not unknown!
‘And must thou go, my dearest one,
‘And must thou go?’ it cried;
‘O life has nothing left for me,
I lose my all in losing thee,
My best belov'd, my pride!’”

XX.

“Whose was that voice?” “In wonder tost,
The softly-breath'd reply I lost;
'Twas sweetly murmur'd, as the love
Of the new-wedded turtle-dove,
And intermix'd with many a sigh.
Again the well-known voice I heard,
‘O go not yet—one parting word,
One kiss, the last, before we die!’”
“Whose was that voice? Tempt me no more!
“Just then, my liege, upon the shore
Th' unshrouded moon-beams fell;
I saw a woman stately, fair,
Her face conceal'd by jetty hair,
Around the page her arms enfold—”
“Name her, or die!” “He left her hold,
And quickly fled across the wold,
And cried ‘Heaven shield thee, Isabel!’”

XXI.

“'Tis false, by Mary's blessed name!
Coward, the slanderer's fiend-like fame,
The traitor's death, thy portion be!
Hence with the slave!” A moment turn'd
The Monarch's thought: with doubt he burn'd.
“Merida, stay! The boy? The page?”
“Ah, vain, my liege, my honest rage!
He fled, and none the boy could see.”
“If this be false, death is thy share!
If true—O God! That misery spare!—
Inez, saw she the page?” “At hand
She waited on the Queen's command.—”
“Where is the Queen?—So true to me,
So fair, so pure—it cannot be!
But yet so cold!—The Queen, say where?”
“At the low tomb of Ferdinand!”
Don Pedro said—“Ah, dares she stand
A foul adult'ress there?
Yet even there, at his sad tomb,
My justice shall decide her doom.”

XXII.

'Tis evening. The last sunbeams play
Within the chapel rich;
Each pillar touch with golden ray,
Light every arch's pointed way,
And with a glory, proudly gay,
Crown each rude saint in fretted nich.
Within a gothic arch enshrin'd,
The lovely boy is laid;
And gold and sculptur'd store combin'd
In rich and wild profusion join'd,
To honor the lov'd infant dead:
But not in tomb or sculptur'd art;
His shrine is in his mother's heart.

XXIII.

Prone on the grave the mourner prays,
And the pale taper's sickly rays
Upon her features fall,
Crossing the gay and golden light,
That from the casement streams so bright,
With wavering shade;—her very sight
Might timid hearts appal!
Her long black hair, spread round her form,
Her ghastly face, whence coloring warm,
And sense and motion seem to fly;
Her robe dark as the evening storm;
Her fix'd unnatural eye;
All, with a thousand tongues, declare,
This is not grief,—it is despair!

XXIV.

Heart-torn, but firm, Alfonzo came;
Yet paus'd he when he saw the dame,
“Has that sad bosom room for love!”
Oh, there was none his breast to move
For the poor Queen: Don Pedro went,
Fearing again the innocent,
By the stern King condemn'd, to hear.
And the dark Juan's moody eyes
Survey'd his foul revenge's prize,
Nor mark'd the tears, nor reck'd the sighs,
Alfonzo breath'd for one so dear.

XXV.

Arming himself to give the stroke,
And giving, share, the monarch spoke:
“Queen Isabel, arise!
Stain not by drops that tainted flow,
The cherub's shrine, who sleeps below;
Oh! not for him that current slow
Steals from thy dewy eyes.
Start not. 'Twas not for Ferdinand
That thou didst, sad and weeping, stand,
At eve on Guadalquivir's strand;
'Twas not his cheek thy lips impress'd;
'Tis not his loss that steals thy rest;
Not those the mother's sacred tears.
Adult'ress! Thy unholy fears,
And guilty hopes, and love, and shame,
That look of agony may claim.
The page! the page! his name? his name?”
He ceas'd: the Queen nor mov'd, nor spoke,
Nor word nor sigh his mercy woke;
She only laid one trembling hand
On the rich shrine of Ferdinand.
She only lifted up her face,
As if one pitying look to trace
In eyes, where love's refulgent grace
Beam'd on her ever:
But from that alter'd glance she shrank,
And, clinging to the tomb, she sank
As drowning wretches to their plank,
“Tell thee his name! Oh, never!”

XXVI.

“Call Inez forth!” The monarch cried:
“Alfonzo,” the sad mourner sigh'd,
“Alfonzo, he enshrined here
Was not from such foul stain more clear!
Thou, only thou, my heart couldst claim.
That boy—that page—” “Tell then his name!”
Her pallid lips the marble kiss;
“A victim, my sweet babe, I come!
Victim! I have deserv'd my doom;
Deserv'd to die! but not for this!”

XXVII.

There all entranc'd in grief she lay,
And sense and misery fled away;
Till Inez call'd her from the grave;
And Inez' tale fresh anguish gave.
O vain had been her simple art
To soothe the jealous monarch's heart!
Vainly she said, the youthful page,
So sick, so pale, so green of age,
Was form'd the gentle heart to move
With pity, friendship, all but love.
Urg'd on by Merida's stern earl,
He little reck'd the faithful girl.
She wept, the piteous tale to tell
To the poor lonely Isabel;
But 'twas decreed, she must abide
To have her cause by combat tried:
And if, in twenty days, no knight
Appear'd, for her the count to fight,
Or if the day Don Juan gain,
That hour shall Isabel be slain.

XXVIII.

Soon through the towns of Murcia spread
The wrathful sovereign's edict dread;
All mourn'd the Queen's unhappy lot,
And wept, and pitied, and forgot!
The workmen, who the lists prepar'd,
Sought of a soldier of the guard,
If some brave noble of the court,
Or gallant foreign knight were there,
As champion for their lady fair?
That soldier, from his kindly eye,
Brush'd off a tear, and check'd a sigh,
“O none is here from hall or bower!
And yon poor dame in prison tower,
Her race of woe is short:
To-morrow's sun approaches fast;—
To-morrow's sun will be her last!”

XXIX.

The morrow came. With changeful sway,
Half tears, half smiles, arose the day;
Emblem of the sad victim's fate,
The sun just gleam'd in shrouded state;
On high pavilion, seat and throne,
His beams with fitful lustre shone;
On spearmen rang'd in martial row,
On lance and battle-axe and bow;
On heralds deck'd with tabards bright;
On marshal, page, and squire, and knight;
And on the mild despairing dame,
Who, hopeless or of life or fame,
In mourning weeds, close veiled, came;
And on the King, more wretched far!
Who, glorious as an earthly star,
Felt, on his throne, the nothingness
Of grandeur or of pomp, to bless.
There was not one of all the crowd
Had dar'd to stem his anger proud,
To say, O deem not ill of her!
Flatterers were there, applauders loud,
But not one comforter.

XXX.

HERALD.
“Here cometh Merida's brave knight!
He cometh to defend the right,
For his great King's and conscience' sake:
To prove the Queen, so seeming bright,
A foul adult'ress, wanton, light,
He cometh here in single fight,
With knighthood, life, and fame at stake.”

XXXI.

Sounded the echoing bugle strain,
Shrilly and loud, o'er all the plain.
Then rode th' appellant forth: as gay
As if the dim and long array
Were but for some bright tourney's play.
His armor, all of burnish'd green,
Reflected every sunbeam sheen,
With emerald lustre, glancing bright,
Like meadows in the morning-light.
The plumage of his crested helm
Was glittering, as the sun-crown'd elm,
From whose young leaves the rain-drops fly,
And nod and sparkle as they die.
Upon his shield a column frown'd,
With dark luxuriant ivy bound;
“Off with the weed!” was blazon'd round.
He seem'd as for the fight he burn'd:
And when again awoke the strain,
Ev'n his Arabian courser spurn'd
The warrior's tightening rein.

XXXII.

Again the heralds loud proclaim,
“If comes no champion for the dame,
From this brave knight to wrest the prize,
At the third bugle blast she dies!”
The second blast has ceas'd to sing,
And dreadful is the pause;
All eyes are fix'd upon the king,
And on the combat's mournful cause:
She sate, wrapt in her sable veil;
None could descry the visage pale,
None see the wild despairing eyes;
But all could read, as in a book,
The feelings that her bosom shook,
Guessing by thrill and start her look,
And by her long convulsive sighs.
Her sobbing maids, with common grief,
Found, in their gushing tears, relief.
But who, Alfonzo, who shall tell
The feelings in thy heart that swell!
Doubt, fear, mistrust, and jealousy!
And love abhorring her deceit,
Yet mourning the delusion sweet;
Wishing his sentence rash, retriev'd,
Longing again to be deceiv'd
By that fair seeming purity.

XXXIII.

No knight appear'd: The third blast blew;
Then o'er the bounds a champion flew!
His stainless armour bright; his crest,
With plumes white as the wild swan's breast;
His martial mien, his youthful grace,
His very courser's mettled pace,
The courtly circle knew!
The conqueror in the tourney game,
He shall protect thee, gentlest dame!
His shield still bore the milk-white rose,
But it was snapp'd from the bright stem;
And radiant with its dewy gem,
Low on the ground its lustre shows.
Yet still his motto own'd its power,
“I worship the departed flower!”

XXXIV.

He pluck'd the gauntlet from the ground,
And brave defiance threw around.
The marshals of the field dispose
The combatants in listed close.
And either horse is turn'd to wheel,
In stunning shock, and either steel
Is rais'd to give the wound;
And every heart, and every eye,
To one brave champion seems to fly;
And Isabel has rais'd her veil,
And, but that speech and motion fail,
Had flown to bless her knight;
When sudden o'er the barrier rush'd
A young fair boy, with travel flush'd,
Whose words in well-known sweetness gush'd,
“Stay, for our Lady's sake, the fight!”

XXXV.

“The page! The page!” Young Inez cried;
The monarch sprang from Pedro's side;
The page is at his feet!
The cap from her fair head she tears;
Her snowy bosom wildly bares;
Her tresses flowing round her form,
With sunny lustre brightly warm;
Her blue eyes full of saintly joy,
Her holy smiles, all doubt destroy:
In one alone such charms can meet;
'Tis she, proud Murcia's loveliest branch,
The long-thought dead, the exile Blanch!

XXXVI.

The nobles, awe-struck and amaz'd,
With strange and sudden wonder, gaz'd.
Unearthly was the maiden's look;
The changeful blood her cheeks forsook;
But still the tender smile was there,
The sunny eye, the form of air;
Almost they deem'd, before their eyes,
To heaven th' enfranchis'd soul would rise:
Alfonzo gaz'd not on her charms,
But, rushing to his lady's arms,
“Forgive me, Isabel!” he said,
The Queen from his embraces fled;
And hung on Blanch's neck, and cried,
“Dearest, for thee I would have died!”

XXXVII.

The King mark'd her emotion wild,
“And was it thus thou lov'dst thy child?
Is the boy's savage murderess press'd,
With transport, to the mother's breast?
Force them apart!—Bear Blanch to death!”
Falter'd not then the maiden's breath:
She loos'd the Queen's convulsive clasp,
Shrank from Almanzor's frenzied grasp,
(Who rush'd the monarch's rage to tame)
And bent to kiss the weeping dame;
Whispering, “It was to die I came!
Remember, Isabel, thy vow!”
“'Twere impious not to break it now!”
And, with the word, thro' the proud ring
That held Almanzor from the King,
Queen Isabella broke:
Low at his feet, with sudden spring,
She knelt and firmly spoke.

XXXVIII.

“Blood cries for blood! Th' avenging hand
Hath slept too long, my Ferdinand!
The murderess' blood shall stain thy spear;
Alfonzo, thou must take it here—
I am the murderess!”
She paus'd, her hand upon her breast;
She paus'd, and sacred was the rest.
Tears stood in every eye; no word,
No motion, and no sigh, was heard,
To break the mute distress.
The King began, “By what sad chance,
My wife—” “O when the murdering lance
Was lifted to her blameless heart,
Who brav'd for me death's venom'd dart,
Thou didst not pause to ask—What chance!”
Again she stopp'd, to gather strength
For the sad tale; it came at length,
Hurried and low, with faltering tone,
And look, that freshly seem'd to see
The Infant playing at her knee;
Now sickening at his dying moan.
She laid her head on Blanch's lap,
And faintly told the dreadful hap.

XXXIX.

“Blanch and my boy, that fatal day,
Pass'd by the palace to their play:
I saw them from my lattic'd bower;
The lovely child smil'd at the tower,
And kiss'd his hand, as if to say,
‘My mother, hasten, come away!’
I came: the boy, like a gay fawn,
Plung'd deeper in the woodland lawn:
O wretched careless mother, I!
I wander'd on unheedingly!
At length a dreadful shriek I caught;
I saw a wolf pursue my child;
My trembling hands to save him sought,
And drew the bow with terror wild.
'Twas Blanch's bow! 'twas Blanch's dart!
It pierc'd—O God! It pierc'd my heart!”

XL.

The mother ceas'd: Her agony,
Reflected, shone in every eye.
Alfonzo hung his princely head;
“Cheer thee, my Queen!” at length he said;
“Cheer thee, and help to bless the maid,
Who by my crime from Murcia driven,
Comes, like a blessed saint from heaven,
Each woe to chase, each wound to staunch:
Thy sovereign kneels for pardon, Blanch.”
“All is forgiven. Be all forgot!”
She strove to rise, she strove to smile;
Her smile was mournful as her lot;
And her slight form, subdued by toil,
Sank back on her dear native soil.

XLI.

The Caliph, springing to the fair,
Rais'd her in love's most fond embrace:
His helm was off, his head was bare;
And valiant knights his name declare;
Almanzor, first of Moorish race!
Grief to the King mild thoughts had lent;
With graceful courtesy he bent,
And hail'd the champion of his dame.
No time was this for idle speech:
“The Princess dies! Have you no leech
For her whose aid a worm might claim?”
They bore her to the royal tent,
They laid her on a couch;
For skilful leeches, hurrying, sent;
And maidens o'er the pillow bent,
Made holy by her touch.

XLII.

Again the shuddering lover view'd,
By famine and by toil subdued,
Her whom he liv'd but to adore.
Again he mark'd the hollow eye;
The sunken cheek, the panting sigh;
The cold dews starting from each pore;
The lips which roses wont to paint,
Pale-quivering now; the ringlets faint,
Once light as plumage of the dove,
And buoyant as the breath of love,
Now clinging to her forehead damp;
He mark'd the varying colors break,
In fitful brightness, o'er her cheek,
Now ashy pale, now blushing meek;
Like flashes of th' expiring lamp.
Deep groans his tortur'd bosom swell:
“Hush! she revives: all will be well!”
Cried the fair sanguine Isabel.

XLIII.

Blanch waken'd from her death-like trance,
And gaz'd on all who round her stood;
Till her vest caught her modest glance;
Then painful was her rushing blood.
She spake not; but her lovely eye
Fix'd on the Queen, imploringly;
Oh! well her kindred spirit knew
The eloquence of that bright hue!
O'er the fair maid she flung her veil,
“I should have died in holier dress!”
She sigh'd. Then turn'd Almanzor pale,
“Thou without whom all blessings fail,
My Blanch, My Blanch! O live to bless!”

XLIV.

Faintly she smil'd. Her glances fell
Upon an armed centinel,
Before the royal tent:
His manly eyes were wet with tears,
And many a look of humble fears,
And many a sigh, he sent.
“Fernandez!” At that voice so sweet,
The lowly soldier's at her feet;
“How is thy Agnes?—Isabel,
Almanzor,—ye have heard me tell—
How is thy dame?” “O well, too well;
When they shall hear!—” his face was flush'd;
Respect and grief his accents hush'd:
Blanch drew a rosary from her vest,
And dropp'd it on the archer's breast;
“For Beatrice!” with alter'd hue,
The kind Fernandez slow withdrew.
She press'd Almanzor's hand; “Had we
Liv'd, like that pair, in cottage free,
Tending our flocks on mountain green,
How blest, how happy, had we been!”
Sighing, as from some painful thought,
Sudden from his, her hand she caught:
“Almanzor, hast thou still my cross?”
“Think'st thou I would endure its loss!
It is a relic, love, of thee!”
“O not of me! O not of me!”

XLV.

None broke the silent pause—“My Queen,
Hast thou the wretched Juan seen?
O it would stay my soul from Heaven,
To die ere all on earth's forgiven!
Alfonzo!” Her mild asking eye
Caught, ere 'twas breath'd, the kind reply;
Again she smil'd, the sainted maid!
'Twas for her direst foe she pray'd.
The Queen knelt down, her lips to kiss;
“Isabel, thus to die is bliss!
Soon shall we meet—I go before—
And thou—” “O better comfort teach!”—
The Queen began, when from the door,
Inez, approaching, led the leech.
“Not now! not now! I fain would sleep!”
The sage, retiring, shook his head:
The maidens cluster'd round the bed;
And Isabel drew back to weep.

XLVI.

Almanzor, kneeling by her side,
His agony in vain would hide:
Ev'n Don Alfonzo's sterner grief,
Found in unwonted tears relief.
Blanch slowly turn'd her from the light,
As if to shun that melting sight;
And threw her arm across her face,
And none her dying look might trace,
None watch her closing eye:
An awful stillness fill'd the place,
Unbroken by a sigh:
Till Isabel, sooth'd by her tears,
For new-born hope resign'd her fears,
“Sweet maid! how tranquil is her sleep!
I cannot hear her breath!”
She rose, to Blanch's couch to creep:—
It was the sleep of Death!