Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/402

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THE MURCIAN CAVALIER.
Whether it had been hope, or soughtBut the water's overflow;The sound had passed away that cameF rom the deep dell below.. . . The fairest face in Spain is wetWith the falling dews of air!That heart, for which so many pine,Is watching for a distant sign,As if life were treasured there!
. . . 'Tis the trampling now of horse's hoofs,For the river wave is still,That scarce beyond the forest's edgeIs gaining on the hill: . . ."Yester-morn," said that Lady,"I was Queen of high Castile;But the hour is come that I must leaveThese princely towers, a fugitive,And a wanderer at will."
The Queen has left the battlementWithout a sigh or tear!That horseman fleet that kneels at her feetIs the Murcian Cavalier;But to his vows of love and truthShe spoke not once again;For her heart was swelling in her breastWith grief subdued and fear supprest,As it would rend in twain.
They have journeyed on by day, by night,Till behind them many a mile;They left the wandering Tagus' course,And the plains of fair Castile;. . . Soft and cool the eventide fellOn the heats of the high-day noon;The fiery sun's descending blazeHad covered with a purple hazeThe woods of dark Leon.
These woods, so deep, or lone, and wild,The Queen surveyed, and sighed!She turned to catch a distant gleamOf the Douro's yellow tide;With intermingling tops, the treesAn awful covering made;And then that sky, of dusky red,The dead of night had been less dreadThan that uncertain shade.
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