The busy tongues have ceased to talk, So gracious in her daily walk No want that kindness may relieve The lifting of a ragged sleeve A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace In every movement shown, Reveal her moulded for the place She may not call her own. And, save that on her youthful brow No matron sealed with holy vow PART FOURTH. THE RESCUE. A SHIP comes foaming up the bay, "Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear; "Sir Harry Frankland, These." Sad news to tell the loving pair! The knight must cross the seas. "Alas! we part! the lips that spoke Lost all their rosy red, As when a crystal cup is broke, And all its wine is shed. "Nay, droop not thus, where'er," he cried, "I go by land or sea, My love, my life, my joy, my pride, Thy place is still by me!" B Through town and city, far and wide, At length they see the waters gleam Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream Red is the orange on its bough, O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow The streets are loud with noisy mirth, They dance on every green; The morning's dial marks the birth Of proud Braganza's queen. At eve beneath their pictured dome The broad moidores have cheated Rome Of all her lords of song. Ah! Lisbon dreams not of the day - When all her towers shall slide away As now these canvas screens ! The spring has passed, the summer fled, And yet they linger still, Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread The flank of Cintra's hill. The town has learned their Saxon name, Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame From over sea is told. Three hours the first November dawn Has climbed with feeble ray How still the muffled echoes sleep! A noise like chariots rumbling deep The channel lifts, the water slides Anon a mountain billow strides And crashes o'er the land. The turrets lean, the steeples reel The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves Beneath the staggering town! Around, the lurid mountains glow With strange unearthly gleams; While black abysses gape below, The earth has folded like a wave, Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave, |