Marguerite of France.

Yes! as before the falcon shrinks

The bird of meaner wing,

So shrank they from th' imperial glance
Of her-that fragile thing!

And her flute-like voice rose clear and high
Through the din of arms around—
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,
As a silver clarion's sound.

"The honour of the Lily

Is in your hands to keep,

And the banner of the Cross, for Him
Who died on Calvary's steep;

And the city which for Christian prayer
Hath heard the holy bell-

And is it these your hearts would yield
To the godless infidel?

"Then bring me here a breastplate

And a helm, before ye fly,

And I will gird my woman's form,

And on the ramparts die!

And the boy whom I have borne for woe,

But never for disgrace,

Shall go within mine arms to death

Meet for his royal race.

"Look on him as he slumbers

In the shadow of the lance!
Then go, and with the Cross forsake
The princely babe of France!
But tell your homes ye left one heart
To perish undefiled;

A woman, and a queen, to guard

Her honour and her child!"

59

60

The Victor.

Before her words they thrilled, like leaves
When winds are in the wood;

And a deepening murmur told of men
Roused to a loftier mood.

And her babe awoke to flashing swords,
Unsheathed in many a hand,

As they gathered round the helpless One,
Again a noble band!

"We are thy warriors, lady!

True to the Cross and thee;

The spirit of thy kindling words
On every sword shall be!

Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast!
Rest-we will guard thee well!

St Denis for the Lily-flower

And the Christian citadel!"

THE VICTOR,

"De tout ce qui t'aimoit n'est-il plus rien qui t'aime?'

-LAMARTINE.

IGHTY ones, Love and Death!

MIGHTY

Ye are the strong in this world of ours;

Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers,

-Which hath the conqueror's wreath?

Thou art the victor, Love!

Thou art the fearless, the crowned, the free,
The strength of the battle is given to thee-
The spirit from above!

The Victor.

Thou hast looked on Death, and smiled!

61

Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form
Through the waves of the fight, through the rush of the storm,
On field, and flood, and wild!

No! Thou art the victor, Death!

Thou comest, and where is that which spoke,

From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke?
-Gone with the fleeting breath!

Thou comest-and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught
Yet loves-yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lone and reft?

Silence is where thou art!
Silently there must kindred meet,

No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet,
No bounding of heart to heart!

Boast not thy victory, Death!

It is but as the clouds o'er the sunbeam's power,
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower,

That slumber the snow beneath.

It is but as a tyrant's reign

O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still;
But the fiery thought and the lofty will

Are not for him to chain!

They shall soar his might above!
And thus with the root whence affection springs,
Though buried, it is not of mortal things—

Thou art the victor, Love.

62

He never Smiled again.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.]

HE bark that held a prince went down,

THE

The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain;

Why comes not death to those who mourn?

He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair—
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,

He saw the tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring:

A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep—
He never smiled again !

Angel Visits.

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,

Fresh hopes were born for other years—
He never smiled again!

63

A

RE

ANGEL VISITS.

No more of talk where God or angel guest
With man, as with his friend, familior used
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast."-MILTON.

ye for ever to your skies departed?

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more? Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore! Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, And ye-our faded earth beholds you not.

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wandered from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,
Came down, high guests! in many a later day,
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak,
Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.