And with the morn Before the man,--for privily she came,-- Stood habited, as were her tire-maids, In humbler raiment. Now the ancient saw And knew her for the princess that she was, And kindling gladness of the knowledge made Two sparkling forges of his deep-set eyes Beneath the ashes of his priestly brows. Not timidly she came; but coy approach Became a maiden of Eddetma's suite. She, gazing on the jewels he had spread Beneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:-- "The princess gave me leave, O grandfather. Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips. Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce." And humbly answered he, "With all my heart!"-- Responsive to her quavering request,-- "The daughter of the king did give thee leave? And thou wouldst wed?--Then let us not delay.-- Thy hand! thy lips!" So he arose and heaped Her with barbaric jewelry and gems, And took her hand and from her lips the kiss. Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell, And from the man all palsied hoariness. Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth, A god in ardent capabilities, Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw, Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er, Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram. TORQUEMADA _To the Chapter of the Archbishop of Toledo._ What doth the Archbishop, his chapter of Toledo?--Yea! doze they above some Bull-- Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot? Come, come! awake! O prelates militant! Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now: Spain's King is less than king as I am less Than Paul the Apostle.--Look you! look around; Observe and dare!--I write above my seal, A grave Dominican, to postulate Pacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaks No nonsense in your excellencies' ears: King Henry's heir _is_ illegitimate! Blanche of Navarre cast off, his Impotence Gave us a wanton out of Portugal For Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heir The cuckold King parades, a bastard, now. Look! all the Court laughs--secretly: but masks Are but for slaves; the people's smile is free From all concealment; and the word still wags About this son,--who is his favorite's, Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,-- Whom, people say,--and what they say is true,-- The King himself, needing a lusty heir, Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed. What shall we do? endorse the infamy? Absolve them?--Yea! absolve them--at the stake! Or, if not that, then with the axe that hews The neck of State asunder!--Is it well, Prelates and ministers?