Songs In Many Keys | Page 4

her own.
And, save that on her youthful brow
There broods a shadowy care,

No matron sealed with holy vow
In all the land so fair
PART FOURTH
THE RESCUE
A ship comes foaming up the bay,
Along the pier she glides;
Before
her furrow melts away,
A courier mounts and rides.
"Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear;
"Sir Harry Frankland,
These."
Sad news to tell the loving pair!
The knight must cross the

seas.
"Alas! we part!"--the lips that spoke
Lost all their rosy red,
As
when a crystal cup is broke,
And all its wine is shed.
"Nay, droop not thus,--where'er," he cried,
"I go by land or sea,
My
love, my life, my joy, my pride,
Thy place is still by me!"
Through town and city, far and wide,
Their wandering feet have
strayed,
From Alpine lake to ocean tide,
And cold Sierra's shade.
At length they see the waters gleam
Amid the fragrant bowers

Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream
Her belt of ancient towers.
Red is the orange on its bough,
To-morrow's sun shall fling
O'er
Cintra's hazel-shaded brow
The flush of April's wing.
The streets are loud with noisy mirth,
They dance on every green;

The morning's dial marks the birth
Of proud Braganza's queen.
At eve beneath their pictured dome
The gilded courtiers throng;

The broad moidores have cheated Rome
Of all her lords of song.
AH! Lisbon dreams not of the day--
Pleased with her painted scenes--

When all her towers shall slide away
As now these canvas screens!
The spring has passed, the summer fled,
And yet they linger still,

Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread
The flank of Cintra's
hill.
The town has learned their Saxon name,
And touched their English
gold,
Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame
From over sea is told.
Three hours the first November dawn
Has climbed with feeble ray

Through mists like heavy curtains drawn
Before the darkened day.

How still the muffled echoes sleep!
Hark! hark! a hollow sound,--

A noise like chariots rumbling deep
Beneath the solid ground.
The channel lifts, the water slides
And bares its bar of sand,
Anon a
mountain billow strides
And crashes o'er the land.
The turrets lean, the steeples reel
Like masts on ocean's swell,
And
clash a long discordant peal,
The death-doomed city's knell.
The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves
Beneath the staggering town!

The turrets crack--the castle cleaves--
The spires come rushing
down.
Around, the lurid mountains glow
With strange unearthly gleams;

While black abysses gape below,
Then close in jagged seams.
And all is over. Street and square
In ruined heaps are piled;
Ah!
where is she, so frail, so fair,
Amid the tumult wild?
Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street,
Whose narrow gaps
afford
A pathway for her bleeding feet,
To seek her absent lord.
A temple's broken walls arrest
Her wild and wandering eyes;

Beneath its shattered portal pressed,
Her lord unconscious lies.
The power that living hearts obey
Shall lifeless blocks withstand?

Love led her footsteps where he lay,--
Love nerves her woman's hand
One cry,--the marble shaft she grasps,--
Up heaves the ponderous
stone:--
He breathes,--her fainting form he clasps,--
Her life has
bought his own!
PART FIFTH
THE REWARD

How like the starless night of death
Our being's brief eclipse,
When
faltering heart and failing breath
Have bleached the fading lips!
The earth has folded like a wave,
And thrice a thousand score,

Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave,
The sun shall see no
more!
She lives! What guerdon shall repay
His debt of ransomed life?
One
word can charm all wrongs away,--
The sacred name of WIFE!
The love that won her girlish charms
Must shield her matron fame,

And write beneath the Frankland arms
The village beauty's name.
Go, call the priest! no vain delay
Shall dim the sacred ring!
Who
knows what change the passing day,
The fleeting hour, may bring?
Before the holy altar bent,
There kneels a goodly pair;
A stately
man, of high descent,
A woman, passing fair.
No jewels lend the blinding sheen
That meaner beauty needs,
But
on her bosom heaves unseen
A string of golden beads.
The vow is spoke,--the prayer is said,--
And with a gentle pride
The
Lady Agnes lifts her head,
Sir Harry Frankland's bride.
No more her faithful heart shall bear
Those griefs so meekly borne,--

The passing sneer, the freezing stare,
The icy look of scorn;
No more the blue-eyed English dames
Their haughty lips shall curl,

Whene'er a hissing whisper names
The poor New England girl.
But stay!--his mother's haughty brow,--
The pride of ancient race,--

Will plighted faith, and holy vow,
Win back her fond embrace?
Too well she knew the saddening tale
Of love no vow had blest,


That turned his blushing honors pale
And stained his knightly crest.
They seek his Northern home,--alas
He goes alone before;--
His
own dear Agnes may not pass
The proud, ancestral door.
He stood before the stately dame;
He spoke; she calmly heard,
But
not to pity, nor to blame;
She breathed no single word.
He told his love,--her faith betrayed;
She heard with tearless eyes;

Could she forgive the erring maid?
She stared in cold surprise.
How fond her heart, he told,--how true;
The haughty eyelids fell;--

The kindly deeds she loved to do;
She murmured, "It is well."
But when he told that fearful day,
And how her feet were led
To
where entombed in life he lay,
The breathing with the dead,
And how she