And answer'd with her voice her lone guitar. It pleased her for a while :-it soothes the soul To pour its thoughts in melancholy words; And if aught can charm sorrow, music can. The song she chose was one her youth had loved, Ere yet she knew the bitterness of grief, But thought tears luxury
Oh, take that starry wreath away; Fling not those roses o'er my lute! The brow that thou wouldst crown is pale, The chords thou wouldst awaken, mute. Look on those broken gems that lie
Beside those flowers, withering there; Those leaves were blooming round my lute, Those gems were bright amid my hair. And they may be a sign to tell
Of all the ruin love will make:
He comes in beauty, and then leaves The hope to fade, the heart to break!"
The song died in low sobs :-"I ever felt That it would come to this,-that I should be Forsaken and forgotten! I would give Life- —more than life—those precious memories Of happiness and Fernand! I'd forget That I have been beloved,-all I have known Of rapture-all the dreams that long have been My sole existence, but to feel again As I felt ere I loved-ere I had given
My every hope as passion's sacrifice."
Her face was hidden in her hands; but tears Trickled through her slight fingers,-tears, those late Vain tributes to remorse! At length she rose, And paced with eager steps her scented bower,
Then trimm'd her lamp, and gather'd flowers and leaves, Twin'd them in wreaths, and placed them gracefully;
Then felt the vanity of all her care,
And scatter'd them around. The morning broke, And hastily she left the shade, to hide
From all her anxious heart-her misery!
That day she knew her fate,- heard that Fernand Was now betrothed to the high-born Blanche. Hermione wept not, although her heart
Swell'd nigh to bursting; but she hid her thoughts,— Next morning she was gone!
The palace was all lustre, like a dome,
A fairy dome; the roofs were all one blaze With lamp and chandelier, the mirrors shone Like streams of light, and, waving gracefully, The purple draperies hung festoon'd with wreaths, That shed their incense round.
Open'd in some new splendour.
Proud the feast The Duke to-night gives for his peerless child; And Castile's noblest are all met to greet Blanche and her gallant lover. Princely forms, And ladies beautiful, whose footsteps fell Soft as the music which they echoed; light, And melody, and perfume, and sweet shapes, Mingled together like a glorious dream. Hermione is there! She has forsaken
Her woman's garb; her long dark tresses float Like weeds upon the Tagus, and no one
Can in that pale and melancholy boy Recal the lovely woman. All in vain
She look'd for him she sought; but when one past With raven hair, and tall, her heart beat high, Then sank again, when her so eager glance Fell on a stranger's face. At length she reach'd A stately room, richer than all the rest,
For there were loveliest things, though not of life: Canvas, to which the painter's soul had given
A heaven of beauty; and statues, which were touch'd With art so exquisite, the marble seem'd Animate with emotion. It is strange, Amid its deepest feelings, how the soul Will cling to outward images, as thus It could forget its sickness! There she gazed, And envied the sad smile, the patient look
Of a pale Magdalen: it told of grief,
But grief long since subdued.
By vases fill'd with fragrant shrubs, were shapes Of Grecian deities and nymphs: she drew Sad parallels with her of Crete, who wept O'er her Athenian lover's perjury. She left the hall of paintings, and pursued A corridor which open'd to the air, And enter'd in the garden: there a while, Beneath the shadow of a cypress tree,
She breathed the cooling gale. Amid the shade Of those bright groves were ladies lingering, Who listen'd to most gentle things, and then Blush'd like the roses near them; and light groups Of gladsome dancers gliding o'er the turf, Like elfin revelling by the moonlight. She look'd up to the lovely face of heaven,- It was unclouded, and the rolling moon Past o'er the deep blue sky, like happiness, Leaving a trace of light; she gazed around, -And all was fair, and gaily beautiful ;~ There was no gloom but that within her heart. Ah! this is very loneliness, to feel
So wholly, wholly destitute, without one thing That has a portion in our wretchedness!
Then two came by:-that voice to her was death
It was her false Fernand's! A lovely girl Hung on his arm, so soft, so delicate,
It seem'd a breath might sweep her from the earth; And Fernand bent with so much tenderness, To catch the music of the timid voice,
Which dared not breathe its love-word audibly. Hermione rush'd thence, as if her step
Had been upon the serpent's lair. That night She brooded o'er her wrongs, and bitterly Pray'd for revenge!-And this is woman's fate: All her affections are call'd into life
By winning flatteries, and then thrown back Upon themselves to perish; and her heart, Her trusting heart, fill'd with weak tenderness, Is left to bleed, or break!
The marriage-feast was spread, the guests were round, The halls were fill'd with mirth, and light, and song. High o'er the rest the youthful pair were placed, Beneath a canopy of fretted gold
And royal purple. With a shout they drank Health and long blessedness to the fair bride! And Fernand call'd for wine, to pledge them back His thanks. A slender page approach'd, and held The golden cup. There is a marble look
In the dark countenance of that pale boy,
Ill suiting one so youthful. Fernand drain'd
The liquor to the dregs; yet while he drank, He felt the eagle glance of that strange page Fix on him like a spell. With a wild laugh Of fearless taunting, he took back the cup :- That laugh rang like a demon's curse! The sounds Of revelry one moment paused-they heard Muttered the words, "Vengeance!" "Hermione !" Blanche broke the silence by her shriek-Fernand Had fallen from his seat, his face was black
With inward agony.-That draught bore fate! That page had poison'd him! In dread they turn'd To where the murderer was: she had not moved, But stood with fixed eyes; the clouds of death Were on her face-she too had pledged that cup !
He sleeps! the hour of mortal pain And warrior pride alike are past; His blood is mingling with the rain, His cheek is withering in the blast.
This morn there was a bright hue there, The flush of courage stern and high; The steel has drain'd its current clear, The storm has bleach'd its gallant dye.
This morn these icy hands were warm; That lid, half shewing the glazed ball, Was life!-Thou chill and clay-faced form, Is this the one we loved? This all?
Woman, away, and weep no more!
Can the dead give thee love for love? Can the grave hear?-His course was o'er, The spirit winged its way above.
Wilt thou for dust and ashes weep? Away! thy husband lies not here:
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