She halts--she starts--on Morton’s corse she lights. Too true the mournful tidings! One shrill cry-- She falls upon his breast, more dull than Night’s, His cold lips kisses in her agony, And clasps again--again--till no reply Convinces even _her_ fond heart the source Of Life is frozen--then, without a sigh, Takes from his hand the sword, nor feels remorse, Her heart transpierces, falls, and dies upon his corse. XXXIII. Oh noblest maiden, though of low estate, With every proud and generous impulse rife; Born to demonstrate to the meanly great, How vain the pageant of a worthless life! Sprung from thy heart like wild-flowers all that wife Could bring of purity to Kingliest throne, With highest attributes to soothe the strife Of human passion, for the fall atone, And show our angel-part preserved in thee alone! XXXIV. Yet noble as thou wert, thy hand was armed ’Gainst thine own life. ’Neath that terrific shock Thy great heart broke! The eye that Morton charmed Burst with its grief-flood like the Prophet’s rock. Cold, callous wordlings, do not Blanca mock. Her fault was generous--that she loved too much. Not long did Anguish at her bosom knock. Like Indian brides when Death their lords doth clutch, She died in the same hour. Grief killed her with a touch! XXXV. Cantabrian maidens, sisters of the oar, Mourn, mourn for her your Cynosure and pride. Her star-like eye shall guide your chase no more, Your glory fled from earth when Blanca died! In vain your barks shall o’er the billows ride; Her beauty gave the sunshine most ye miss. So graceful ne’er again your fleet shall glide; Nor waves your prows so joyously shall kiss. For Nereus ne’er surveyed a daughter fair as this! XXXVI. Mourn, San Sebastian, for the beauty blighted Of her your angel-child in by-gone years. Your eyes no more shall by her charms delighted Recal celestial dreams to chase your fears. And, Isidora too, be shed thy tears, Or hoarded for thyself whom danger girds. Thy foster-sister memory now endears Alone, with thought of gentle deeds and words. For ye were severed long, poor caged and sundered birds! XXXVII. And, England, mourn for him the youthful Chief, Whose noble promise Death hath there struck down, Survived by Blanca for a moment brief, And followed soon beneath the rampart’s frown. Oh, perished there young Love and young Renown, And budding Glory in the path of arms. Mourn for the brave who fell before the town, Nor least for Morton, first ’mid War’s alarms To prove the patriot glow the Briton’s heart that warms. XXXVIII.