XXXI.

Unheard by day. It seemed as if her breast Had hoarded energies, till then suppressed Almost with pain, and bursting from control. And finding first that hour their pathway free:

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 cherished! were ye then but reared for those dark hours?

XXXII.

A mournful home, young sisters! had ye left, With your lutes hanging hushed 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 wo 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, e'en then, what seemed the crowd to shun,

Half veiled 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 reached 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 had lain bedded in the silent soul,
A treasure all undreamt of;-as the night
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll

emblem be!

XL.

But thee that breath had touched not; thee, nor him,

The true in all things found!-and thou wert blest

Even then, that no remembered change could dim

The perfect image of affection, pressed
Like armour to thy bosom !-thou hadst kept
Watch by that 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 strewed 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!

XLII.

And she to die!-she loved the laughing earth With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers!

-Was not her smile even as the sudden birth Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers? Yes! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, Which, oft unconsciously, in happier hours Flowed from her lips, was to forget the sway Of Time and Death below,-blight, shadow, dull decay!

XLIII.

Could this change be?-the hour, the scene, where last

I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind: -A golden vintage-eve;—the heats were passed,

And, in the freshness of the fanning wind,
Her father sat, where gleamed the first faint
Through the lime-boughs; and with her light
guitar,

She, on the greensward at his feet reclined,

In his calm face laughed up; some shepherd-lay Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play.

XLVIII.

Hear its voice, hear!-a cry goes up to thee, From the stained sod;—make thou thy judgment known

It died away;-the incense-cloud was driven Before the breeze-the words of doom were said;

And the sun faded mournfully from heaven,
-He faded mournfully! and dimly red,
Parting in clouds from those that looked their
last,

And sighed " Farewell, thou sun!"-Eve
glowed and passed-
Night-midnight and the moon-came forth
and shed

Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot-".

Save one-a place of death-and there men slumbered not.

To do beneath that Temple, and profane
Its holy radiance?-By their wavering flare,
I saw beside the pyres-I see thee now,
O bright Theresa! with thy lifted brow,
And thy clasped hands, and dark eyes filled with
prayer!

And thee, and Inez! bowing thy fair head,
And mantling up thy face, all colourless with
dread!
LIII.

And Alvar, Alvar!-I beheld thee too, Pale, steadfast, kingly; till thy clear glance fell On that young sister; then perturbed it grew, And all thy labouring bosom seemed to swell With painful tenderness. Why came I there, That troubled image of my friend to bear Thence, for my after-years?—a thing to dwell In my heart's core, and on the darkness rise, Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful eyes?

despair?

LVII.

But she-as falls a willow from the storm, O'er its own river streaming-thus reclin'd On the youth's bosom hung her fragile form, And clasping arms, so passionately twined Around his neck-with such a trusting fold, A full deep sense of safety in their hold, As if nought earthly might th' embrace unbind! Alas! a child's fond faith, believing still Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to kill!

LVIII.

Brief rest! upon the turning billow's height, A strange sweet moment of some heavenly strain,

Floating between the savage gusts of night, That sweep the seas to foam! Soon dark again The hour-the scene-th' intensely present, rush'd

Back on her spirit, and her large tears gushed Like blood-drops from a victim; with swift rain Bathing the bosom where she lean'd that hour, As if her life would melt into th' o'erswelling shower.

LIX.

But he, whose arm sustained her!-oh! I knew 'Twas vain, and yet he hoped !-he fondly

strove

Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo,
As life might yet be hers!-A dream of love
Which could not look upon so fair a thing,
Remembering how like hope, like joy, like
spring,

Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move, And deem that men indeed, in very truth, Could mean the sting of death for her soft flowering youth!

LX.

He wooed her back to life.-"Sweet Inez, live!
My blessed Inez!-visions have beguil'd
Thy heart-abjure them!-thou wert formed to
give,

And to find joy; and hath not sunshine smiled Around thee ever? Leave me not, mine own! Or earth will grow too dark!-for thee alone, Thee have I loved, thou gentlest! from a child, And borne thine image with me o'er the sea, Thy soft voice in my soul!-Speak-Oh! yet live for me!"

LXI.

She look'd up wildly; there were anxious eyes Waiting that look-sad eyes of troubled thought, Alvar's Theresa's!-Did her childhood rise, With all its pure and home-affections fraught,

In the brief glance?-She clasped her hands— the strife

Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, It seemed as if a reed so slight and weak Must, in the rending storm not quiver onlybreak!

LXII.

And thus it was the young cheek flushed and faded,

As the swift blood in currents came and went, And hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded, And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent Through its white fluttering lids. Then trem

blings passed

O'er the frail form, that shook it, as the blast Shakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent Its way to peace-the fearful way unknownPale in love's arms she lay-she-what had loved was gone!

LXIII.

Joy for thee, trembler !-thou redeemed one, joy! Young dove set free! earth, ashes, soulless clay, Remained for baffled vengeance to destroy; -Thy chain was riven!-nor hadst thou cast away

Thy hope in thy last hour!-though love was there

Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, And life seemed robed in beautiful array, Too fair to leave!—but this might be forgiven, Thou wert so richly crowned with precious gifts of Heaven!

LXIV.

But wo for him who felt the heart grow still,
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain
Breaking on his!-Scarce could the mortal chill
Of the hushed bosom, ne'er to heave again,
And all the silence curdling round the eye,
Bring home the stern belief that she could die,
That she indeed could die!-for wild and vain
As hope might be-his soul had hoped-'twas
o'er-

Slowly his failing arms dropped from the form they bore.

LXV.

They forced him from that spot.-It might be well,

That the fierce, reckless words by anguish wrung From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell, Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents flung, Were marked as guilt.-There are, who note these things

Against the smitten heart; its breaking strings

-On whose low thrills once gentle music hungWith a rude hand of touch unholy trying, And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange tones replying.

LXVI.

But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair!
Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust;
I saw your features by the torch's glare,
And they were brightening with a heavenward
trust!

I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay, Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away, And peace was there-the calmness of the just! And, bending down the slumberer's brow to kiss, "Thy rest is won," he said;-"sweet sister! praise for this!"

LXVII.

I started as from sleep ;-yes! he had spokenA breeze had troubled memory's hidden source! At once the torpor of my soul was brokenThought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. -There are soft breathings in the southern wind, That so your ice-chains, O ye streams! unbind, And free the foaming swiftness of your course! -I burst from those that held me back, and fell Ev'n on his neck, and cried-" Friend, brother! fare thee well!"

LXVIII.

Did he not say "Farewell ?"-Alas! no breath Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the throng

Told that the mysteries in the face of death Had from their eager sight been veiled too long. And we were parted as the surge might part Those that would die together, true of heart. -His hour was come-but in mine anguish strong,

Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea, Blindly I rushed away from that which was to be. LXIX.

Away-away I rushed;-but swift and high
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew,
Till the transparent darkness of the sky
Flushed to a blood-red mantle in their hue;
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seemed
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they
streamed,

With their wild splendour chasing me!-I knew The death-work was begun-I veiled mine eyes, Yet stopped in spell-bound fear to catch the victims'

cries.

LXX.

What heard I then?—a ringing shriek of pain, Such as for ever haunts the tortur'd car?

I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear! -The rich, triumphal tones!-I know them well, As they came floating with a breezy swell! "Man's voice was there-a clarion voice to cheer In the mid-battle-ay, to turn the flyingWoman's-that might have sung of Heaven beside the dying!

LXXI.

It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing, To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know That its glad stream of melody could spring Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human wo! Alvar! Theresa !-what is deep? what strong? God's breath within the soul !-It filled that song From your victorious voices!—but the glow On the hot air and lurid skies increased-Faint grew the sounds-more faint-I listenedthey had ceased!

LXXII.

And thou indeed hadst perished, my soul's friend! I might form other ties-but thou alone Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown! Others might aid me onward:-Thou and I Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, Once flowering-never more!-And thou wert gone!

Who could give back my youth, my spirit free, Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me?

LXXIII.

And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave!
I could not weep:-there gathered round thy

name

Too deep a passion!-thou denied a grave! Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame! Had I not known thy heart from childhood's time?

Thy heart of hearts?-and couldst thou die for crime?

-No! had all earth decreed that death of shame, I would have set, against all earth's decree, Th' unalienable trust of my firm soul in thee!

LXXIV.

There are swift hours in life-strong, rushing hours,

That do the work of tempests in their might! They shake down things that stood as rocks and

towers

Unto th' undoubting mind; they pour in light Where it but startles like a burst of day

For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way;— They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight,