Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/401

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THE MURCIAN CAVALIER.
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But the trumpets scarce had sounded clear,'Twas still but morning dawn,When the Queen was far from gay Castile,At the lone towers of Castellan.The hours, till even, she spent in prayerAt the Holy Virgin's feet,And when the night's ungentle breezeBlew hollow through the orange trees,She stood to hear the torrent beat.
And to the Courts of high CastileShe turned her eyes, and sighed!Far, far remote were revelry,And feast, and pomp, and pride.Who is the fairest of that circle?Who was there fair but one?And she, upon a distant tower,By her heart-pulse counts the passing hour,Untended and alone . . . . .
"'Tis a horse's hoof from the tournament;Dost hear the tramp on the plain?""Lady! 'tis but the waterfallOn the rocks of Castellan!""Inez! Inez! thou hearest noughtBut the tumbling waterfall!My ear has caught the faintest sound,When the winds on the waters were loud around,And I heard them not at all."
"O Lady! leave the battlement,For the night is drawing near,And the sighing of the forest trees'Tis sorrowful to hear!""I would, Inez! 'twere sorrowful,But it is nought to me!I would that my crushed heart had roomFor these unpainful fears that comeFrom the rustling of a tree!"
The Queen bent down her death-like cheekOn the marble pillar stone;And she waved her hand to Inez,That she would be alone!Like a flame the moon was in the sky,As through the mist it shone;In the Tagus' wave, as in a glass,Its face was red as burning brass,Or the sun a-going down.
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