'TWAS Autumn; thro' Provence had ceased The vintage, and the vintage-feast. The sun had set behind the hill, The moon was up, and all was still, And from the Convent's neighbouring tower The clock had tolled the midnight-hour, Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown; A guilty thing and full of fears, Yet ah, how lovely in her tears! She starts, and what has caught her eye? What-but her shadow gliding by? She stops, she pants; with lips apart Then, thro' the scanty orchard stealing, The clustering boughs her track concealing, She flies, nor casts a thought behind, But gives her terrors to the wind; Flies from her home, the humble sphere Of all her joys and sorrows here, Her father's house of mountain-stone, And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown. At such an hour in such a night, So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright, Who would have seen, and not confessed What will not woman, when she loves? Yet lost, alas, who can restore her ?— Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone; Oh what the madd'ning thought that came ? By Condé at Rocroy he stood; By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. Two banners of Castile he gave Aloft in Notre Daine to wave; Nor did thy Cross, St. Louis, rest He slung his old sword by his side, And snatched his staff and rushed to save; Then sunk and on his threshold cried, "Oh lay me in my grave! "-Constance! Claudine! where were ye then? "But stand not there. Away! away! "Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay. "Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain; "No voice sends back thy name again. "To mourn is all thou hast to do ; Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too." And who but she could soothe the boy, Or turn his tears to tears of joy? Long had she kissed him as he slept, Long o'er his pillow hung and wept ; And he, who thro' the breach had led Over the dying and the dead, Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears! Oh! she was good as she was fair. None-none on earth above her! As pure in thought as angels are, To know her was to love her. When little, and her eyes, her voice, Her every gesture said "rejoice,” Her coming was a gladness; And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace, When, shading with her hand her face, Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; And her dark eyes-how eloquent; Ask what they would, 'twas granted. His songs she sung and sung again, Till the last light withdrew. Every day, and all day long, He mused or slumbered to a song. Her lute hangs silent on the wall; |