Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew,

And he his sword was like a brother's worn, That watches through the field his mother's young

est born.

XXIX.

But a lance met me in that day's career, Senseless I lay amidst th' o'ersweeping fight, Wak'ning at last-how full, how strangely clear, That scene on memory flash'd!—the shivery light, Moonlight, on broken shields—the plain of slaughter, The fountain-side-the low sweet sound of waterAnd Alvar bending o'er me-from the night Covering me with his mantle!-all the past Flow'd back - my soul's far chords all answer'd to the blast.

XXX.

Till, in that rush of visions, I became

As one that, by the bands of slumber wound, Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame, Intense in consciousness of sight and sound, Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things! Troubled even thus I stood, but chain'd and bound On that familiar form mine eye to keep:Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep!

XXXI.

He pass'd me-and what next?-I look'd on two, Following his footsteps to the same dread place, For the same guilt-his sisters! (5)-Well I knew The beauty on those brows, though each young face

Was changed-so deeply changed!—a dungeon's air
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear;
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race,

Queen-like Theresa! radiant Inez!-flowers So cherish'd! were ye then but rear'd for those dark hours?

XXXII.

A mournful home, young sisters! had ye left,
With your lutes hanging hush'd upon the wall,
And silence round the aged man, bereft
Of each glad voice, once answering to his call.
Alas, that lonely father! doom'd to pine
For sounds departed in his life's decline,

And, 'midst the shadowing banners of his hall, With his white hair to sit, and deem the name A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame! (6)

XXXIII.

And woe for you, 'midst looks and words of love, And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long! How had I seen you in your beauty move, Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song! -Yet sat, even then, what seem'd the crowd to

shun,

Half-veil'd upon the clear pale brow of one, And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong, Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery sway, Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay.

XXXIV.

And if she mingled with the festive train,
It was but as some melancholy star
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
In its bright stillness present, though afar.
Yet would she smile-and that, too, hath its smile-
Circled with joy which reach'd her not the while,
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war

With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true.

XXXV.

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, A treasure all undreamt of;-as the night Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll Unheard by day. It seem'd as if her breast Had hoarded energies, till then suppress'd Almost with pain, and bursting from control, And finding first that hour their pathway free: Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be!

XXXVI.

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, Was fled; and fire, like prophecy's, had sprung Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scornPride-sense of wrong-ay, the frail heart is bound By these at times, even as with adamant round,

Kept so from breaking!-yet not thus upborne She moved, though some sustaining passion's wave Lifted her fervent soul- a sister for the brave!

XXXVII.

And yet, alas! to see the strength which clings Round women in such hours!-a mournful sight, Though lovely!-an o'erflowing of the springs, The full springs of affection, deep as bright! And she, because her life is ever twined With other lives, and by no stormy wind May thence be shaken, and because the light Of tenderness is round her, and her eye Doth weep such passionate tears-therefore she thus can die.

XXXVIII.

Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking

scene,

As through a triumph, move; and cast aside
Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's mien,
O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide,
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth,
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth,
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified;
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the

past,

That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last.

XXXIX.

For thou hast made no deeper love a guest

'Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which

grows

VOL. IV.. 3

Between the nurtured of the same fond breast, The shelter'd of one roof; and thus it rose Twined in with life.-How is it that the hours Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers Round the same tree, the sharing one repose, And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft, From the heart's memory fade, in this world's breath so oft?

XL.

But thee that breath had touch'd not; thee, nor him, The true in all things found!-and thou wert blest Even then, that no remember'd change could dim The perfect image of affection, press'd Like armour to thy bosom!-thou hadst kept Watch by thy brother's couch of pain, and wept, Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith Unto thy soul;-one light, one hope ye chose-one death.

XLI.

So didst thou pass on brightly!—but for her, Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken! All merciful! to think that such things were, And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken! To think of that fair girl, whose path had been So strew'd with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene! And whose quick glance came ever as a token Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice As a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods rejoice!