And clasp the hand that death has won:
Alas! thou ne'er wilt have a son!"
"Take courage, dearest!" UGo sighed ;
"Bridesmaids! assist to lead the Bride

To her dead LEONARDO'S side:
Instead of nuptial festival,

This day we have a funeral!"

VIII.

Within that Castle's highest tower,
At this serene and roseate hour,
When Beauty walks on heath and hill,
And nuptial guests the temple fill,
Lies LEONARDO stark and still.

So cold, so pale the beams of day
Turn trembling from his icy clay-
Vassals and slaves around him stand,
A ghastly, terror-stricken band,
And, through the solemn portal, glide
The Bridesmaids, UGo, and the Bride,
Who, kneeling by the bloody bed,

Begins to say her Rosary;
When up before her stands the dead,

And, bowing to the company,

As only dead Bridegroom could bow,

Wrote "murderess" in blood upon her brow.

CANTO III.

THE VOYAGE-THE HARPER-THE ACQUAINTANCE-THE WEDDING.

I.

MORN is abroad, the sun is up,

The dew fills high the lily's cup;

Ten thousand blossoms blushing there
Diffuse their incense through the air,

And smiling hail the morning beam;
The fawns plunge panting in the stream,
Or through the vale with light foot spring ;
Insect and bird are on the wing,
And all is bright, as when in May

Young Nature holds a holiday.

II.

The rising tide with heavy flow
From sea to shore rolls to and fro,
And wailing, breaks upon the shoal,
Like Sorrow's tempests o'er the soul

Afar upon the restless sea,
Bound to Etnean Sicily,

Lord LEON's bark with swelling sail
Rushes before the rising gale,

Across the brine, where wildly tost
On rocks Æneas' fleet was lost,1
On-on she flies, before the wind,
The main ahead, the shore behind,
Receding to a misty speck.

The sailors gather upon the deck,
To bid their native land good-night,
And drop a tear to past delight.
On the lofty poop Lord LEON sits,

His elbow resting on his knee; And when the wave no more permits Him sight of sunny Italy,

Like one whose thoughts are far away,

He murmurs to himself this lay.

SONG.

Thou hast faded from my sight,

Fair Italy;

But still, thy star shines bright

To me to me.

Thy sweetest, fairest flower,

My Italy,

I'll soon pluck from its bower

In secrecy ;

And bear it to some isle

Far o'er the sea,

To feast upon its smile

Unceasingly.

III.

While LEON sang, a minstrel old,
Whose wrinkled brow a story told

Of wonder, woe and want, drew near,

To give his song attentive ear.

IV.

His frame was bowed, his limbs were weak, Sorrow had furrowed deep his cheek;

And o'er his thin, dishevelled hair,

That bore no marks of recent care,

And beard that on his bosom hung,

A century her frost had flung.

He may have been descendant of

The wandering tribe of troubadours,

Who sang of war and ladye love,

And knightly feats on Paynim shores.

V.

His harp he loosened from his arm,

And while he eyed young LEON's form,
His flashing features closely scanned,

He touched the strings with trembling hand.

SONG.

In Sicily there lives a maid
Of youth and beauty rare:
With step as light as Elfin fawn's,
With form beyond compare.

Her hair is fair as the fairy floss

Her skin like ivory,

Her cheeks more fresh than freshest rose

Of spicy Araby.

Her sire he is of noble birth,

His gold and lands are great;

Young ROSALIE the only heir

Of all his high estate.

And many a lofty knight, and lord,

And baron of the land,

Have sought upon their bended knee

That lovely lady's hand.