Old forests belt and bar Her towering battlements; And all the west, with crest on crest, The blue o' the hills indents. Her garden's terrace cliffs That soar above a sea Dreamier and fuller of shadowy color Than sunset's mystery. And league on league of coast, Sand-ribbed of wind and wave, Rolls dim and far with reef and bar And many an ocean cave. The morning,--bright with beams And sea-winds,--wakes the day; Its breezy lutes and foamy flutes Make music on the bay. The deer are roused from rest; The sea-birds breast the brine; And from the steep wild torrents leap Foaming 'neath rock and vine. But she, in one tall tower, High built above the tide, In her heart a thorn, turns from the morn, Wan-faced and weary-eyed. Long, long she looks a-sea, As one who seeks a sail: But on her view the empty blue Beats and her eyelids quail. She turns and slowly goes Down from her sea-gray towers, To walk and weep, like one asleep, Among the salt-slain flowers. Until the sun is set, And crocus heavens, grown cold, Leave all their light to the new moon's white And one star's point of gold. Until a breeze from sea Sets in, of balm and spice And streams amid the stars, half-hid, Thin mists as white as ice. And then her eyes grow large With hate or one last hope, And again she bends her gaze where blends The sea with heaven's slope. But naught the night reveals, The night that seems to weep And shudder down two stars, that drown Themselves within the deep. Then to herself she says, Softly, "Ah God! to know No death or shame is his, or blame, Who brought on me this woe! "What though I know that Hell At last will have its own; It will not heal my soul, I feel, Though there he wail and moan. "Could I his carrion see, On yonder crag's wild crest, Hung up to rot, a traitor's lot, My soul might find some rest!"... And this is she God made Of sunlight and of flowers For love and kisses and fond caresses-- Yolanda of the Towers. [Illustration: She raised her oblong lute and smote some chords. Page 230 _Accolon of Gaul_ ] ERMENGARDE Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one arm Pillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night, Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm, Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light. Pale from the purple of the damask cloth One hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, lone Above a bed of poppies; or a moth Might softly hover by a rose full-blown.