When Spring bursts forth in blossoms through the vale, And her wild music triumphs on the gale, Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile ; Framing loose numbers. JACQUELINE. I. '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 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? 10 She stops, she pants; with lips apart Then, through the scanty orchard stealing, So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright, Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone; By Condé at Rocroy he stood; By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blond, 20 30 |