In summer skies I saw serenely bright Creation smile o’er pastoral cottage fair. Effulgent glory dwelt in loveliest light On copse and garden, hedge and homestead there. It seemed as exiled from that spot was Care! Sudden a cloud o’ergathering, fringed with red, Burst in black thunder bellowing through the air. A hissing bolt its flame terrific sped; The cottage ruined lay--its peaceful inmates dead! III. Not fairer Hella on the Ægean flood With her young brother sate the golden fleece, Than Blanca steered her bark when Morton stood Within its round, ’mid war discovering peace, And from his eyes drank love-light without cease; Nor with more grief was Athamantis torn, When sank her lovely form ’twixt sunny Greece And blue Propontis, than made Blanca mourn, When Morton owned his gage to join the Hope Forlorn. IV. “Ah, do not go! _Mi Dios_, thou wilt not go! “Guillermo, thou wouldst kill thy Blanca. Death “Is there nigh certain.” William smiled: “Why no, “Not certain quite. Sweet Blanca, I’ll have breath “To kiss thee on my return. Why sorroweth “My love so soon, that was so brave erewhile?”-- “I care not for myself but thee, for saith “The general voice, tis fatal.”--“See, I smile”-- “Oh God, if aught befal thee, Death may light his pile.” V. A trumpet sounded. “’Tis the summons--hark,” Quoth William. Blanca straight grew lily-pale. He kist her thrice, then leapt from out the bark. “Fear not,” he said. “To-morrow without fail “We meet,” then flew with heart unused to quail. But Blanca motionless remained behind, Like calmed Feluca which the dying gale Hath quite forsook. Oh, Love had tamed her mind, And pride and patriot thoughts _for him_ were idle wind! VI. Now battle’s roar which she had learnt to love, Or strove to love for liberty to Spain, Fell on her ear with horror, as the dove By cry of falcon is transfixed with pain; And still she numbered William ’mongst the slain, And every cannon with terrific boom That maid so bold before made shake amain, As were his breast the target. Rolled the drum; “We meet to-morrow.” Ah, that morrow ne’er may come! VII. Dire was the chill that fell on Blanca’s soul, And oft she sighed for Isidora’s ear, To pour her woes and hear those lips console-- Her foster-sister more than sister dear! But Isidora’s lot was e’en more drear, For none might dare from San Sebastian pass; And shivering from each cannon’s shock with fear, She longed by Blanca’s side--’twas vain, alas! To pluck the summer-flowers, and brush the dewy grass, VIII.