University of Virginia Library

CANTO I.

[I.]

Alfonzo's princely tournament
Has bravely worn the summer day;
And scarce, when from the banner'd tent
To Murcia's halls the champions went,
The setting sun illum'd their way.
And now the breeze of evening stirs
The citron trees in Murcia's bower;
Sleeps now the silver passion flower;
The bird of night proclaims the hour;
Yet still the merry wassailers
Prolong the feast in princely tower.

II.

'Midst whispers of subdu'd applause,
The Queen, with blushing grace, withdraws.
Alfonzo, pausing, stoop'd to hear
Each low, half-murmur'd sound;
No praise escap'd his watchful ear,
And when he join'd his lady dear,
In beauty's self new charms he found.
'Twas for the fair Queen Isabel
The tourney and the feast were given,
In playful fight stout coursers driven,
And helm and targe and buckler riven,
Her peerless charms to tell:
Whilst Spanish Knights proclaim their Queen
In grace, in goodness, and in mien,
All other dames excelling;
Her form is beauty's throne serene!
Her heart is virtue's dwelling!

III.

Full many a hero proud was there,
Champions of England and of France;
This for the damsel debonair,
With sparkling eyes and jetty hair,
That for the blue-ey'd maid so fair,
To break the friendly lance.
And now they talk, in festive hall,
Of their good steeds and ladies' charms,
Of sparkling bowls and deeds of arms,
And ills that love and war befal.
But chiefly of the tourney told
The stripling brave, the chieftain old:
Then burst Ambition's rosy flame,
Or the dark blush of wrathful shame;
And you might well in every face
The day's success or failure trace.

IV.

Sir Hugh de Vernon spake—“In sooth,
Don Pedro, 'twas a gallant youth,
The nameless knight, who overthrew
Your Queen's proud champion and withdrew.
The knight of the white rose, whose shield,
In mystic words, own'd love's strong power
High-blazon'd o'er the listed field,
‘I live and die for my Blanch Flower!’
Who can the mystery read?” “Sir Knight,”
Don Pedro said, “if I aright
Mark'd your admiring eyes,
The flower that fix'd your roving sight
Guided the champion to the prize.
The flower that woke his courage staunch,
It was our gentle Princess Blanch.”

V.

Ere Vernon's lips to speak divide,
A haughty peer, who heard the tale,
Count Merida, with rage grew pale,
“And wherefore Blanch?” he cried,
“Cannot a boy, some sighing swain,
In love perchance with half the train
That tend his lady mother,
Cannot he come, with senseless speed,
And overthrow a jaded steed,
But you must cry, a matchless deed!
Forgetting every other?
Cannot he bear the stale device
Of lovers skill'd in quillets nice,
A half-blown rose upon a branch,
But he must aim at Lady Blanch?

VI.

“Don Pedro, well thou know'st that name”—
“Nay,” quoth the Briton, “check thy flame;
And tell me, Pedro, of the dame.
Was it the girl, with frolic mien,
Who hover'd round the lovely Queen,
So light, so graceful, and so fair,
She seem'd some creature of the air,
A floating beam of glory?
Juan de Merida, I bear
A charmed heart; no lover's care
Demands thy lady's story:
But from Don Pedro I would claim
The lineage of the peerless dame.”

VII.

“Short is the tale of happiness!
And happiness alone,
The self-blest heart, the power to bless,
The gentle Blanch has known.
Her sire was uncle to the King;
And, in calm peace and gay content,
With Blanch Alfonzo's youth was spent,
The heart's delicious spring!
The Princess was our Sovereign's heir,
And princely was her dower;
The nation lov'd the blooming pair,
‘Where could the King find one so fair
To share his love, his fame, his power?’
So spake the people and the states;
Not so the Monarch's breast;
The feather'd race chuse not their mates,
From birdlings of the parent nest.
Bred with the Princess like a brother,
He lov'd, he woo'd, he won another.

VIII.

“Then first was Blanch's virtue shown;
The young Queen was her dearest friend,
And when throughout the land 'twas known
A lowly orphan the high throne
Of Murcia should ascend;
When murmurs from his friends arose,
And threats from the proud Monarch's foes;
Then to the Queen the Princess came;
‘When my dear kinsman chose so well,
No dowerless bride was Isabel;
Half of my lands are thine, sweet dame!
Are we not sisters in our heart?
Would'st thou our childish union part?
And most unkindly now refuse
Wealth, only priz'd for thee, to use?’

IX.

“So spake young Blanch! and the white rose
Her own pure emblem may disclose,
As fair, as bright, as free from stain;”—
“Why harp'st thou still upon that strain?”
Don Juan cried; “To-morrow's field,
If in that field he dare appear,
Shall force the Knight to me to yield,
Shall from his brow the laurel tear,
The white rose from his shield!”
Merida frown'd a stern adieu,
And the late revellers withdrew.

X.

All sounds were hush'd within the halls;
Through the high towers no echo fell,
Save where the weary centinel
Pac'd slowly round the palace walls.
And lull'd in slumber's soft repose
Brave knights and lovely ladies lay;
Sleep could Grief's dewy eye-lids close,
Could chase away pale Envy's woes,
And young Ambition's throb delay.
One only passion spurn'd his power;
'Twas happy Love alone!
One maiden counted ev'ry hour,
One knight watch'd that fair maiden's bower,
And soon to Beauty's loveliest flower,
He woke Love's sweetest tone.

XI.

XII.

Serenade continued.

XIII.

And sooth, 'twas like some vision'd form,
The Fay that to the lattice stole;
But for the blush, now glowing warm,
Now fading, in emotion's storm,
He might have thought 'twas but the soul
Of one thrice blest in Heav'n above,
Who came to spread life, joy, and love:
For through her form of fairy size
The laughing spirit seem'd to rise;
Nor gem, nor veil, with envious duty,
Obscur'd the purer ‘light of beauty;’
But every grace had room to play,
And caught the taper's fitful ray;
Whilst sweetly changing and unfix'd,
Now from the knight's fond gaze retreating,
Now, blushing, his bright glances meeting,
Pure love with virgin coyness mix'd.

XIV.

Scarce could the sculptor's practis'd eye
Decide if her's were symmetry:
For ever bounding, turning, dancing,
Like sun-beam on a meadow glancing,
None could proportion trace;
But still her light and airy round,
The charmed eye like magic bound,
And all proclaim'd it grace.
Her face with youth's pure coloring glows:
So softly blent, yet so distinct,
Such brilliant white, such rosy tinct,
The apple-blossom shows.
And the pure skin, divinely fair
Seem'd as the sun had spar'd her ever,
And wintry storms, and summer air,
Had touch'd her never.

XV.

Her auburn locks, with wayward will,
Stray from the golden bodkin still;
Luxuriant, glossy, unconfin'd,
The silken ringlets freely wind,
Now on her snowy forehead wave,
Now sport around her cheek's soft dimple,
Quick-passing like the calm lake's rimple,
Where the young cygnets lave:
Sometimes the ruby lips they kiss,
Where lovely smiles so gaily fly,
As if they liv'd for naught but bliss,
And ne'er had breath'd a sigh:
Sometimes they shade those azure eyes,
Whose rays through the dark lashes beaming,
In their own liquid diamonds gleaming,
Like summer meteors rise:
As if those rays, benignly clear,
Had never glitter'd through a tear.

XVI.

The maiden from her lattice bent,
Her own true knight to view;
'Twas the dark hour; but love had lent
His piercing sight; her gaze intent
The white-rose champion knew.
His towering form her eye could trace,
The hero's mien, the stately grace:
Whilst on his stainless armor came
Bright gleams of intermitted flame,
From the lone taper's ray;
His velvet mantle floated round,
And the white plumes his helm that crown'd
Bent with night's dewy spray.

XVII.

'Twas not the casque, or snowy plume,
That maiden's glance would greet;
She sought athwart the midnight gloom,
Her lover's eyes to meet,
The jet-black eyes whose lightning-blaze
Flash'd all too bright for mortal gaze,
Till, soften'd by the drooping lid,
All save love's trembling beams were hid.
The hero's toil-brown'd cheek was there;
The polish'd brow was slightly bent,
As if the statesman's studious care,
To youth's own candid front, so fair,
That cast of thought had lent.

XVIII.

But for his smiles;—O never thought,
Nor care, nor pain, they knew!
His was a lip with magic fraught,
Where sweetness and expression wrought;
Where wit his gayest lesson taught,
Where lurking love quaff'd honey-dew,
And on that lip sate eloquence:
But, oh, how vain, in that blest pause,
Was skilful art's mellifluence,
To tell his love to love's sweet cause!
Falling at his dear lady's feet,
The lov'd-one's name, O sound most sweet!
“My Blanch!” his trembling lips repeat.

XIX.

And sweet was Blanch's low reply,
And lovely her averted eye,
And bright her blushing cheek;
“Almanzor, dear Almanzor, fly!
'Tis for my sake these toils you seek;
Ah, rather, if my peace be dear,
Preserve the noble spirit here!”
She lightly touch'd his corslet clasp;
His bounding heart the steely grasp
Could scarcely then restrain;
“Oh my own Blanch! 'tis for thy sake
I live or die, or sleep, or wake;
But thy poor captive's heart will break,
If banish'd from thy sight again.

XX.

“Why should we part? my Blanch, thy beauty
Stole not my trembling soul away;
I would not lure thee from thy duty;
No, not to gild my happiest day.
I would not steal thy loveliest charms,
Innocence, nurs'd in Virtue's arms,
And cradled in the lap of Bliss;
I would not change that down-cast eye,
That timid smile, that half-breath'd sigh,
That blush of angel Modesty,
For rapture's fondest kiss.

XXI.

“It is thy mind I love, my Blanch!—
Remember'st thou the happy hour,
When first in fair Aledo's bower,
Plucking grape-clusters from the branch,
I saw thee and I felt thy power?
I see it now, the lovely scene!
Thy joyous vassals all around,
With merry dance and lightsome bound,
Whilst beauty only mark'd their Queen.
I see thee now! thy polish'd arm
Thrown, with affection's gentlest charm,
Round thy sick nurse, who sweetly smil'd
At thy caress and accent mild;
That look, that accent, won my heart,
I gaz'd, I lov'd!—Why should we part?”

XXII.

“Why should we part! Hast thou forgot,
Granadian chief, a Caliph's lot?
Would'st thou a Christian Princess bear
To breathe thy Harem's tainted air?
Yes, we must part.—Why didst thou roam,
Adventurous, from thy princely home?
Or why, when thus to love betray'd,
Why was not I a cottage maid,
And thou a rustic youth?
Then might our bloom together fade,
In peace, and joy, and truth!
Why is not mine Almanzor's faith,
That we might hope to meet in death!”
Mournful she paus'd: the King replied,
“Deign, lovely dame, to be my bride,
And thou, my peerless Blanch, alone
Shalt share my heart, my bed, my throne;
Thy faith, thyself, and I thine own!

XXIII.

“No ties detain thee here, sweet maid;
Wilt thou not come?”—she rais'd her head,
And flash'd reproach from her blue eye;
“Is kindred friendship, Prince, no tie?
Almanzor, not with thee to dwell,
Could hallow'd joys our love attend,
Would I forsake my Isabel,
My cousin, sovereign, friend!”
“Would'st not thou, Blanch? Ah, if with me
Thou would'st not joy from all to flee,
Though pity that soft breast may move,
Trust me, my fair, thou dost not love!
Love's lambent flames around thee play,
With rainbow tints reflected gay,
Brightening, not melting, in the ray,
Like sun-beams on a crystal rock;
But, till those icy walls decay,
Thy cold heart cannot feel his shock.”

XXIV.

Was it the taper's sudden light
That cast the colors heavenly bright,
Which glow'd on Blanch's downcast cheek?
Was it the ringlet, sporting wild,
That Blanch of her sweet smile beguil'd,
And woke her blush and dimple sleek?
Or was it but the modest joy
Of chastest love, of fondness coy,
Which seeks, with woman's graceful pride,
Ev'n when her passion she reveals,
Affection's fond excess to hide;
Avowing least when most she feels?
Almanzor gaz'd with hope renew'd,
And glance of triumph half-subdu'd;
Then thus, with lighter heart, pursu'd:

XXV.

“What is this magic tie? The King?
Ah! lovely maid, the healthful flower
That shelters in the night-shade's bower,
Blooms not beneath so dire a wing!
To virtue and to thee unjust,
He views thee, Princess, with mistrust.
And for the Queen”—“Almanzor, cease!
Traitor to friendship's empire, peace!
Away! I may not hear thy spell;
Away, too dangerous Infidel!
Seest thou not there thy matin warning,
Yon widening streak of eastern light,
Its cold pale lustre spreading bright,
Bringing, to wakeful lovers, night,
And to a sleeping world its morning?
Away! The watchman, chanticleer,
Sounds his shrill clarion in mine ear.
Hope not; I dare not bid thee fear,—
No, far from thee be pain and sorrow!
Away, if Blanch's fame be dear!
Knight of the Rose, a kind good morrow!”

XXVI.

At noon, high-rais'd above the crowd,
In a pavilion glitt'ring proud,
The lovely Queen with all her train
Sate gazing on the listed plain:
And, foremost of the courtly ring,
Was Murcia's young and gallant King;
A warrior brave in camps was he,
Though now, from 'cumbering armor free,
He view'd the splendid panoply;
Content, by Isabella's side,
Each champion's prowess to decide.

XXVII.

In beauty's most majestic mould
The fair Queen's perfect form was cast;
Proportion, feminine though bold,
Commanding charms each gesture told,
Whilst grace in every motion past.
Her hair was black, and dark her eye;
Her cheek had stol'n the richest dye
That paints the damask rose,
Unrivall'd, save by lips as red,
As coral, in its native bed,
The sparkling ocean, glows.
And her dark skin, of finest grain,
Though the warm sun, with mellow stain,
Had mark'd her for his own;
Flush'd the bright hue of joy or pain,
And told each feeling's throb as plain,
As if it match'd the swan's bright down:
And every blush that wanton'd there,
Told of the spirit heavenly fair!
And every glance of her dark eye,
Of kindness spake, and modesty!

XXVIII.

Around her form, of stateliest height,
Floated a purple mantle bright,
With gold embroidery richly dight;
Scarce could her page its weight sustain;
Beneath, a golden tissue shone,
With pearl bedeck'd and ruby stone,
Light clasp and glitt'ring chain.
And every bright and living gem
Glow'd in her princely diadem,
Or sparkled on her breast:
While still the pleas'd, yet dazzled, sight
Shrank from the bright excess of light,
On milder charms to rest.

XXIX.

It rested on that maiden fair,
With sunny smile and nut-brown hair,
Whose mantle caught its azure dye
From the soft lustre of her eye;
Whose veil seem'd, like a fleecy cloud,
The moon's chaste beauty to enshroud;
Whose very diamonds artless shone
Like dew-drops in the morning sun:
Whilst, on her knee, a cherub boy
Caught and return'd her glance of joy:
'Twas Ferdinand, the youthful heir
Of Murcia and the royal pair;
Was never child so brave, so fair,
Was none so well belov'd!
Isabel's joy, Alfonso's care,
Their fond caress he wont to share,
But still to Blanch he rov'd.

XXX.

Now is the mimic fight begun;
The clarions sound, the heralds run;
Champions of every nation flock;
And, in the fierce encounter's shock,
Full many a courser bites the field,
Full many a knight is forc'd to yield;—
I cannot sing of war! The lute
Falls from my hand relax'd and mute;
Jarring, it falls upon the ground;
A hero's death-groan seems the sound!
I cannot strike the quiv'ring string,
Of combat or of strife to sing!
Not mine the wish, nor mine the power,
To tell of listed field and fight,
Of dying steed, of wounded knight,
And the long tourney's wrathful hour!
Dreadful it is, when earthquake's shock
Shakes cot and palace, church and rock!
Dreadful, when thunder-bolts rush down,
And wrap in flames some crowded town!
But far more dreadful is the jar,
When human passions madly rise,
When louring, like a baleful star,
Ev'n mirthful sport and exercise,
Take the fell combat's splendid guise!
I cannot, will not, sing of war!

XXXI.

Blanch, studious, turn'd her lovely eye
From that blood-tinctur'd pageantry.
She shudder'd at the loud applause;
She trembled at the awful pause;
And when the trenchant lances prest,
Death-menacing, at either breast,
She hid her tearful features fair
In her young playmate's curly hair.
Scarce then could Blanch's soft caress
The Infant's kindling zeal repress;
He joy'd the mingled sound to hear
Of herald, horseman, sword, and spear;
His dark eyes flash'd the warrior's light,
“My cousin, I will be thy knight,”
He cry'd, “and Moors and Paynims fight!”
She blush'd; but soon her glowing cheek
Grew pale and cold as virgin snows;
She heard glad shouts the stillness break,
And friends and foes together speak,
“He comes! The knight of the white rose!”

XXXII.

She scarcely saw the snowy plume
That round his helmet play'd;
She scarcely mark'd the sable gloom
Of his stout foe in arms array'd.
It was count Merida's keen blade
That sought Almanzor in the fight;
She knew him not, but earnest pray'd,
“O shield from ill my own true knight!”
She gaz'd not on the haughty foes,
But her heart felt the ringing blows;
And when, the well-fought combat o'er,
Don Juan sank, besmear'd with gore,
Beneath Almanzor's sword;
When thousand voices shout his fame;
And his the victor's prize proclaim;
And his dark foe's defeat and shame;
Even when the joyful sound she heard,
Her heart had so intensely fear'd,
She scarce could trust the word.

XXXIII.

Dazzled, as in a pleasant dream,
Blanch view'd her knight of all the theme.
The Queen the princely scarf bestow'd,
Where gold and mingled 'broidery glow'd,
And the triumphant laurel crown;
But, gliding from the splendid throne,
The victor knelt to Blanch alone.
He did not raise his visor'd casque;
Love lurk'd beneath war's rugged mask!
And, in his mailed clasp, the hand
He prest that held young Ferdinand.
“Lady, behold thy knight!” he cried,
“By thy dear self I swear,
Though fortune and though fate divide,
In pain, in sickness, and in care,
In life and in life's parting hour,
To live and die for my Blanch Flower!”
He said, nor waited for reply;
But vaulting on his prancing steed,
O'er the high barrier seem'd to fly,
And vanish'd from each wond'ring eye,
With more than mortal speed.

XXXIV.

Marvell'd the knights, in field and hall,
Who could the youthful victor be?
Don Juan, brooding o'er his fall,
Nurs'd baleful envy's rancorous gall,
His lady's blush of love to see.
Smiles on his pallid features sate,
But his dark bosom nourish'd hate
To him who won the crowd's applause,
To her the fair and spotless cause.
The Princess, fled from him, from all,
Her hero's accents to recal,
And half to hope, and half to fear,
Again his lay of love to hear.
Alone she pass'd the midnight hour,
But mute was all around;
No footstep echo'd from the tower;
No strain throughout the silent bower,
Broke the calm air with soul-felt sound.
Hush'd was the tuneful serenade;
Yet listen'd still the watchful maid,
And sigh'd to be so well obey'd.

XXXV.

So pass'd the night. At break of day
With the young Prince she took her way,
With dart and bow, across the lawn:
But not to spill the life-blood gay
Of the blythe birds on verdant spray,
Or chase the spotted fawn.
'Twas but with Ferdinand to try
How far the painted shaft would fly,
And mark the Infant's ardent eye,
The feather'd bolt pursuing;
Or send it whizzing through the trees,
And watch him the light arrow seize,
Now bent his playmate fair to teaze,
Now ev'ry fond caress renewing.
For this they left the stately court,
Deep in the woodland glen to sport;
And as they pass'd the palace wall
Their laughter sounded thro' the hall:
The happy father rose to see
And share their guileless revelry,
Nor turn'd till to the park they flew,
And graceful wav'd a kind adieu!

XXXVI.

High rode the sun: to the green wood
The King their flow'ry steps pursued:
He listen'd for some sportive bound,
For childish laugh, or frolic glee;
He thought behind each shelter'd mound
His rosy Ferdinand to see;
He wander'd full of hope and joy;—
What was that low heart-piercing sound?
What was that form upon the ground?
It was his dying boy!
His face with death's pale stamp imprest,
A barbed arrow in his breast,
In Blanch's arms the Infant lay;
His closing eyes on her were fix'd,
With looks where pain and fondness mix'd,
And his faint moans her hand transfix'd,
When she would draw the dart away.

XXXVII.

They cease at once. The boy is dead!
The father breathes nor word, nor groan;
He stands as if the shaft that sped
And bow'd to earth that lovely head,
Had turn'd his form to stone.
He sees the cheek whose rosy flush
Outvied at morn the eastern blush,
Now horrible in death!
He sees the lips he oft has prest;
O ne'er on his those lips shall rest!
Cold is the fond and happy breast!
Mute is the tuneful breath!
Still, motionless, Alfonzo gaz'd,
Though friends and courtiers crowded round;
Till Blanch the lovely Infant rais'd,
And kiss'd and lav'd with tears the wound;
And wip'd it with her silken tress:
Then with wild start his speech he found,
“Drag hence the murderess!”

XXXVIII.

Shock'd and amaz'd the courtiers stood;
“See you not that her victim's blood
Spouts out upon her knee?
See you not 'tis her painted dart
Hath pierc'd my murder'd infant's heart?
O Blanch! Thou who could'st calmly see
His glaring eye-balls fix'd on thee,
Why did'st not thou first murder me!
Yes, fair destroyer! I alone
Impede thy passage to the throne;
Kill me as thou hast kill'd my child,
And I will bless thy mercy mild.”
The Monarch ceas'd. To calm his thought
Time-honor'd Pedro vainly sought:
Vainly implor'd the kneeling fair,
“Hear but my tale!” was all her prayer.

XXXIX.

“I will not hear! I can but see!
Doth not that sight sweet vengeance claim?
My boy, the fiend that murder'd thee
Should drain the dregs of misery,
Though shelter'd by a mother's name!
And thou—Drag hence the miscreant, Lords!”
Blanch, starting on her feet, her hand
Unlink'd from the dead Ferdinand,
Obey'd Alfonzo's stern command,
In grief too full, too deep, for words.
Yet, as she went, her tearless look,
Fix'd on the corse, her frame that shook
Convulsive, told she scarce could brook
The pangs that rent her bosom's chords.
And as the King's last words she caught,
“Ah, who to thee this tale shall tell,
My hapless, childless Isabel!”
A scream burst forth too wild for thought!
And, senseless to her prison door,
The lost, unfriended maid they bore.

XL.

Throughout the land the tidings spread:
The people mourn'd the Infant dead;
And vengeance on poor Blanch's head,
With heart and voice, call'd down.
Yet some there were, of gentler mould,
Who all her deeds of mercy told;
“Time will a guilty tale unfold,”
They said, in whisp'ring tone,
“But never that sweet lady's hand
Could aim the dart at Ferdinand!”
In high cathedral chaunted loud,
Prayers for the murder'd Infant rung;
And bells were toll'd and masses sung
At sainted shrine and convent proud.
Within the court 'twas sadness all;
At council-board, at mass, in hall
Scarce was the monarch seen;
And none, since the lov'd victim's fall,
Had view'd the childless Queen.
One only peer of all his train
Sought not Alfonzo's ear in vain;
Count Merida, with specious lies,
Urg'd him to the fell sacrifice,
“A nation's prayers demand her fate;
My liege! why should you hesitate!”

XLI.

To ev'ry mortal ill resign'd
Was the fair captive's dauntless mind;
Nor trial by her brother worm,
Nor death could shake her purpose firm:
Trial nor death were hers!
Eight weary days had roll'd away,
When, with the beams of morning gay,
Came an arm'd band: their lovely prey
Deem'd them her murderers.
They led her thro' the crowded street,
They plac'd her on a platform high,
And curses the poor maiden greet,
And hatred lours in ev'ry eye;
Yet is not that fair wretch to die,
For death were pity's sweetest meed!
And now the herald's deep-ton'd cry
Proclaims the culprit's murd'rous deed;
And now the sentence in her ear
Rings in loud accents sadly clear.

XLII. THE SENTENCE.

“Blanch of Aledo! murderess foul!
In pity to thy sinful soul,
And for thou art our uncle's heir,
Thy life—murderess! thy life we spare;
But from thy state we pluck thee down:
Thy wealth is forfeit to the crown;
Thy lands, thy vassals, and thy home:
And thou, proscrib'd and spurn'd, shalt roam.
No tongue shall speak the name thou bearest!
No hand shall touch the robe thou wearest!
No ear shall listen to thy call!
The roof that shelters thee shall fall!
The man who succours thee shall die!
Hence, murderess, hence! repent, and fly!”

XLIII.

The herald's task is o'er. The maid,
Still tranquil, fix'd, and breathless staid;
As if of that dread tale no word
Her terror-palsied ear had heard;
At length, awak'ning from her trance,
She cast to heaven one suppliant glance,
As if to seek for mercy there:
Then, stepping tow'rds the armed ring,
She ask'd, “May I not see the King?
Will not he listen to my prayer?”
Vainly she gaz'd in ev'ry face,
A tear, a pitying look to trace;
Still in each guard's averted eye,
She read his stern fidelity:
Till a tall comely archer came,
And roughly seiz'd the lovely dame,
And led her from the crowd;
“Away! the King abhors thy name!”
He cried, abrupt and loud.
But, with the word, he kindly prest,
Within her hand, his little store,
And whisper'd, “Would that it were more!”
Sweet was the sound to Blanch's breast!
She would not take the proffer'd purse;
But there was one would bless, not curse!
He who has known the venom'd pang
When hatred lurks in misery's fang,
He only knows what sweet relief
E'en powerless pity yields to grief.

XLIV.

A bankrupt ev'n in thanks, the maid
By tears alone his kindness paid.
She, at whose feet proud lords had sued,
For innocence by want subdu'd,
For contrite guilt to plead,
She, who successful pour'd the prayer
For human error, human care,
Found now no eye her tears to share,
No arm to shield her in her need,
And, when the archer turn'd away,
And none was there her steps to stay,
None, Cheer thee, hapless maid! to say;
She felt, as one by shipwreck tost
Upon a wild and savage coast,
From peace and love and grandeur hurl'd,
An outcast in an unknown world.

XLV.

Conspicuous from her rich attire,
Blanch pass'd through many a crowded street;
Once could that form all ages fire;
All prest to gaze and to admire;
Now at her coming all retreat:
Save those, the basest of the base,
Who, from her high and eminent place,
Would pluck ennobled Virtue down;
Who love to glut their fiendlike eye,
With sight of princely misery,
And hate all brows that wear a crown.
From such the jest obscene she heard,
The gibing taunt, the bitter word
Which licens'd vice pours in the ear
Of suffering modesty;
Such sounds to be condemn'd to hear,
Was punishment far more severe,
More dreadful destiny,
Than Merida's extremest hate,
Or the King's wrath could meditate.

XLVI.

Shuddering she fled to the high porch,
Wide spread before our Lady's church:
And, “Here,” she cried, “my sorrows cease!
Here I may lay me down in peace,
And dying, fear no earthly foes!”
She laid her head against the door,
Her form along the marble floor;
And soon the cool refreshing shade,
And gales that swept the colonnade,
Lull'd the fair maid to calm repose:
Gay dreams were floating o'er her brain,
When startled she awoke;
And ere those visions bright and vain
Fled from the sense of real pain,
She saw advance a bridal train,
And her sweet smiles unconscious broke.

XLVII.

Blanch oft the youthful bride had seen,
A damsel of the court;
And often to the gentle Queen,
Had prais'd fair Inez' frolic mien,
And often, on the velvet green,
Had join'd with her the Infant's sport.
The bride came deck'd in smiles and blushes;
But, when she caught the Princess' eye,
Back to her heart her warm blood rushes,
And all her smiles of beauty fly!
She runs, as from a lion's wrath,
Trembling across the church-yard path;
But the deep sigh, the crystal tear,
They speak of pity more than fear:
“Heaven shield the wanderer on her way!
Carlos, I cannot wed to-day!”

XLVIII.

Blanch left the porch, with sadden'd soul,
And to a new-made grave-mound stole,
Beneath a mournful cypress rais'd;
Till, leaning on the verdant knoll,
The big tears floated as she gaz'd.
The selfish but most natural thought,
Where is my grave? her feelings taught.
“Ah! when I die, no decent stone
Will tell, the once-lov'd Blanch lies here;
No friends will wait on Blanch's bier;
No earth be on my ashes thrown;
But dogs my unblest corse shall tear,
And vultures strip each whitening bone!”
Dried were her tears: her spirit soar'd
From death to its immortal birth!
When groans of anguish, near her pour'd,
Recall'd her struggling thought to earth.

XLIX.

On the low grave, before her, knelt
A form where beauty once had dwelt,
Till chas'd by grief's rude hand away;
Her garments told her cause of woe,
And widow'd tears, that ceaseless flow,
Proclaim'd the sorrow, passing show,
The soul-felt grief that shuns the day.
She saw not Blanch: her pensive glance
Strayed not beyond the grave's expanse;
Till sighs from other lips that broke,
A partner in her anguish spoke:
She look'd up, full of jealous woe,
To guard her shrine from worshippers;
Reluctant, any tear save her's,
Should honor him who slept below.
But when she saw what mourner wept,
Thro' her spare form faint shiverings crept;
Touch'd by the maid with murder stain'd,
She deem'd the hallow'd earth prophan'd;
And, bent from impious touch to save,
Stretch'd her weak frame along the grave;
“In mercy, hence!” at length she said,
And the meek sufferer obey'd.

L.

Whither to fly? Alas, my sight
Can happy love's sweet blossom blight!
My form can change the tender care
Of widow'd grief, to wild despair!
I may not with the poor man toil!
I may not with the happy smile!
I may not with the mourner weep!
I may not with the buried sleep!
I can but die—They bade me roam—
I go to thee, my native home!