And quiet smiled the old man, pleased to see A pair so formed for mutual happiness, So beautiful in different quality, Whom destined wedlock’s bonds ere long to bless; And as he feasted on their comeliness, At thought of Carlos and of Isidor A tear would gathering come--yet not the less He poured on these his deep affection’s store; But rather, centred thus, his spirit entwined them more. XLV. Now all his momentary ire had ceased ’Gainst Britain’s sons, whose high and generous hearts Partook no stain of deeds which are the feast Of felon-natures wielding Victory’s darts. And when for war again young Nial starts, Salustian gives his blessing: Isabel With many a tear a treasured chain imparts Of Isidora’s hair and her’s: “Twill dwell Next to my heart,” he said, as sobbed the maid “Farewell!” XLVI. But, ah, the town Isaiah’s voice recals When mourned the awful prophet Zion’s doom, With battering nations camped around her walls, Till flames devouring chase the midnight gloom. Wo to thee, Ariel, wo, gigantic tomb! The Lord of Hosts shall visit thee with storm And thunder;--vengeful fires thy pride consume, In gory dust is laid thy beauteous form, And as a dream of night thy agonies shall swarm! XLVII. In after days, when Isidora long Had slept the icy slumber of the dead, The memory of her Beauty and her wrong O’er her still honoured name a lustre shed; And many a lover with her story fed The tuneful echoes of Biscaya’s plain, Told how all crimson ran her stony bed, How passed to bliss the maiden without stain, And thus her early doom preserved in simple strain: The Basque Lily. Mourn Cantabria’s lily fair, Blooming soft like young Aurora; Broken lies and bleeding there Beauty’s flowret, Isidora! Honour’s martyr-crown she prized Life before and living splendour. Ah, how fearfully disguised Is that blossom once so tender. Vascongada, mourn! 2 Ne’er was such unfading truth, Love so pure beheld in maiden; Never was such radiant youth With such boundless virtue laden. Pity felt her heart for wo, For Iberia deep devotion; While her damask cheek would show Of her soul the least emotion. Vascongada, mourn! 3 San Sebastian’s daughters, weep, Yet a blessing call upon her; Even the dread Cathedral leap Chose the maid before dishonour! Red the lily, torn its charms, Fiery-tongued for pity pleading. Carlos, ah, thy frozen arms Cannot fold thy angel bleeding. Vascongada, mourn. HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES TO CANTO IX.