She quell'd in her soul the deep floods of woe,
The time was not yet for their waves to flow;
She felt the full presence, the might of death,
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath,
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,
As she turn'd to his followers-" Your Lord is there!
Look on him! know him by scarf and crest !—
Bear him away with his sires to rest!"

Another day-another night—

And the sailor on the deep

Hears the low chant of a funeral rite
From the lordly chapel sweep:

It comes with a broken and muffled tone,

As if that rite were in terror done;

Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling power, And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour.

Hurriedly, in fear and woe,

Through the aisle the mourners go;

With a hush'd and stealthy tread,

Bearing on the noble dead,

Sheathed in armour of the field

Only his wan face reveal'd,

Whence the still and solemn gleam
Doth a strange sad contrast seem
To the anxious eyes of that pale band,
With torches wavering in every hand,
For they dread each moment the shout of
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar.

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend,
No brother of battle, no princely friend;
No sound comes back like the sounds of yore,
Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor;

By the red fountain the valiant lie,

The flower of Provençal chivalry,

But one free step, and one lofty heart,

Bear through that scene, to the last, their part.

war,

She hath led the death-train of the brave

To the verge of his own ancestral grave;
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway,

But the struggling passion must now have way.
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil,

By turns does the swift blood flush and fail;
The pride on the lip is lingering still,

But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill;
Anguish and Triumph are met at strife,

Rending the chords of her frail young life ;
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier,

Lifting her voice, as if Death might hear.

"I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!

Now call me hence, by thy side to be,

The world thou leav'st has no place for me.
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth-
Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth!
Give me my home on thy noble heart,—

Well have we loved, let us both depart!"

And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay,
The living cheek to the cheek of clay;
The living cheek!-Oh! it was not vain,
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain;
She is there at rest in her place of pride,
In death how queen-like—a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed One!—she might not stay
When the crown had fallen from her life away;
She might not linger-a weary thing,

A dove, with no home for its broken wing,
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,

That know not its own land's melodies.

From the long heart-withering early gone;

She hath lived-she hath loved her task is done!

THE CORONATION

OF

INEZ DE CASTRO.

Tableau, où l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; union redou

table de la mort et de la vie !

MADAME DE STAEL.

THERE was music on the midnight;

From a royal fane it roll'd,

And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly toll'd.

Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hush'd the listener's breath;

For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell, of death.