The sun has climbed the golden hills And danceth down with the mountain rills. Over the meadow the swift beams run Lifting the flowers, one by one, Sipping their chalices dry as they pass, And kissing the beads from the bending grass. The Dauphin's chateau, grand and grey, Glows merrily in the risen day; His castle that seemeth ancient as earth, Lights up like an old man in his mirth. Through the forest old, the sunbeams bold Their glittering revel keep, Till, in arrowy gold, on the chequered wold In glancing lines they sleep. And one sweet beam hath found its way To the violet bank where the Ladye lay. O radiant touch! perchance so shone The hand that woke the widow's son. She sighs, she stirs; the death-swoon breaks; Life slowly fires those pallid lips; And feebly, painfully, she wakes, Struggling through that dark eclipse. Breathing fresh of Alpine snows, Breathing sweets of summer rose. Murmuring songs of soft repose, The south wind on her bosom blows: But she heeds it not, she hears it not; Fast she sits with steady stare. The dew-drops heavy on her hair, Her fingers clasped in dumb despair, Frozen to the spot: While o'er her fierce and fixed as fate, The fiend on his spectral war-horse sate. A horrible smile through the visor broke, And, quoth he, "I but watched till my Ladye woke. Get thee a flagon of Shiraz wine, For the lips must be red that answer mine!" Cleaving the woods, like the wind he went. His face o'er his shoulder backward bent, Crying thrice--"We shall meet at the Tournament!" Clasping the cypress overhead, Christine rose from her fragrant bed. And a prayer to Mother Mary sped. Hold not those gleaming skies for her The same unfailing Comforter? And those two white winged cherubim, She once had seen, when Christmas hymn Chimed with the midnight mass, Scattering light through the chapel dim, Alive in me stained glass-- {179}