And within that rich pavilion High on a glittering throne, A woman's form sat silently, Midst the glare of light alone. Her Jewell'd robes fell strangely still-- The drapery on her breast Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill, So stone-like was its rest. But a peal of lordly music Shook e'en the dust below, When the burning gold of the diadem Was set on her pallid brow! Then died away that haughty sound, And from th' encircling band, Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand. Why pass'd a faint cold shuddering Over each martial frame, As one by one, to touch that hand, Noble and leader came? Was not the settled aspect fair? Did not a queenly grace, Under the parted ebon hair. Sit on the pale still face? Death, Death! canst _thou_ be lovely Unto the eye of Life? Is not each pulse of the quick high breast With thy cold mien at strife? --It was a strange and fearful sight, The crown upon that head, The glorious robes and the blaze of light, All gather'd round the Dead! And beside her stood in silence One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compress'd, Lest the strong heart should fail; King Pedro with a jealous eye Watching the homage done By the land's flower and chivalry To her, his martyr'd one. But on the face he look'd not Which once his star had been: To every form his glance was turn'd, Save of the breathless queen; Though something, won from the grare's embrace, Of her beauty still was there, Its hues were all of that shadowy place, 'Twas not for _him_ to bear. Alas! the crown, the sceptre, The treasures of the earth, And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, Alike of wasted worth! The rites are closed--bear back the Dead Unto the chamber deep, Lay down again the royal head, Dust with the dust to sleep. There is music on the midnight-- A requiem sad and slow. As the mourners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go, And the ring of state, and the starry crown, And all the rich array, Are borne to the house of silence down, With her, that queen of clay. And tearlessly and firmly, King Pedro led the train-- But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, When they lower'd the dust again. --'Tis hush'd at last, the tomb above, Hymns die, and steps depart: Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love? _Mightier_ thou wert and art! _New Monthly Magazine._ [7] Don Pedro of Portugal, after his accession to the kingdom, had the body of the murdered Inez taken from the grave, solemnly enthroned and crowned. * * * * * ART THOU THE MAID? Art thou the maid from whose blue eye Mine drank such deep delight? Was thine that voice of melody Which charm'd the silent night?