There have been roses round my lute; but now And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled main With "Surely in such a storm he cannot brave, At length Aurora led young Day and blush'd; Not long uncertain,-she mark'd something glide, THE PROUD LADYE. Oh, what could the ladye's beauty match, The rose of the summer slept on her cheek, Its lily upon her breast, And her eye shone forth like the glorious star There were some that woo'd for her land and gold, And more that woo'd for her loveliness; "There is a steep and lofty wall, Where my warders trembling stand, Many turn'd away from the deed, The hope of their wooing o'er ; But many a young knight mounted the steed At last there came a youthful knight The steed that he rode was white as the foam And she who had scorn'd the name of love And the ladye grew meek as if disdain Were not made for that stranger knight. She sought at first to steal his soul But gaily the young knight laugh'd at her fears And flung him on his steed, There was not a saint in the calendar That she pray'd not to in her need. She dared not raise her eyes to see If Heaven had granted her prayer, And took the ladye Adeline From her hair a jewell'd band, And deemest thou that I dared this deed, The honour that guides the soldier's lance Enough for me to ride the ring, The victor's crown to wear; But not in honour of the eyes Of any ladye there. I had a brother whom I lost Through thy proud crueltie, And far more was to me his love, Than woman's love can be. I came to triumph o'er the pride Through which that brother fell; I laugh to scorn thy love and thee, And now, proud dame, farewell! And from that hour the ladye pined, And on her slumber there came dreams And she cut off her long dark hair, And she now dwells a veiled nun In Saint Marie's cell. From The Troubadour HANNIBAL'S OATH. And the night was dark and calm, As the presence of death were there; Only a moaning sound Came from the distant sea, It was as if, like life, It had no tranquillity. A warrior and a child Pass'd through the sacred wood, Which, like a mystery, Around the temple stood. The warrior's brow was worn With the weight of casque and plume, And sun-burnt was his cheek, And his eye and brow were gloom. The child was young and fair, But the forehead large and high, And the dark eyes' flashing light Seem'd to feel their destiny. They enter'd in the temple, And stood before the shrine, The ground rock'd beneath their feet, There's a page in history O'er which tears of blood were wept, And that page is the record How that oath of hate was kept. CRESCENTIUS. I look'd upon his brow,—no sign He stood as proud by that death-shrine A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that Death could take He stood, the fetters on his hand,- And had that grasp been on the brand, With freer pride than it waved now. Around he lock'd with changeless brow On many a torture nigh: The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, I saw him once before; he rode And tens of thousands throng'd the road His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many a dint that told Of many a soldier's deed; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, But now he stood chain'd and alone, The plume, the helm, the charger, gone He bent beneath the headsman's stroke A wild shout from the numbers broke |