University of Virginia Library

XLIX.

Sidonia's courts look'd mournful as when last
He saw them, but not lonely;—menials pass'd,
Frequent and hurrying, though in silence all,
And robed in sable. In the palace-hall
Was pomp as in its proudest days of old;
Yet many a black escutcheon lined the wall.
What wrought the change he knew not, but it told,
Though heavy on the heart had fall'n the blow,
That time or Heaven had check'd the cureless woe.
The old man met him with a smile, but pale,
And welcomed him, yet welcomed with a sigh;
“His daughter had return'd;—his prodigal;”
A sudden tear stood trembling in his eye,
And his lip quiver'd, and his hurried hand
Swept from his brow the drops of misery.
“She came in peace,—still pure,—but came to die.”
Sebastian tried to cheer,—himself unmann'd
To see in his enfeebled frame, how soon,
How surely, Time's slow work by grief is done;
And soothed, and led him gently, as if there
He saw a leaf of Autumn, thin and sere,
That the first breath might flutter from the tree.
“She came in purity—but came to die,”
Was all the old man's voice—still check'd by tears.
Sebastian led him beyond menial ears,
Calm'd him, and heard his brief and bitter tale.
“Floranthe, daughter of his heart and years,
Had come to him at last,—not false or frail,
But worn by pain, and clouded by some woe
That baffled hope;—her life was hovering now
Above the grave.—The sufferer seldom spoke,
Smiled never; hung for hours o'er lute or book,
Loved through the garden shades to stray unseen;
Was all, and more than all, that she had been,
Most gentle, tender, filial; but her eye
Bore in it Death's sure summons,—she must die.”