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The busy tongues have ceased to talk,
Or speak in softened tone,

So gracious in her daily walk
The angel light has shown.

No want that kindness may relieve
Assails her heart in vain,

The lifting of a ragged sleeve
Will check her palfrey's rein.

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
There broods a shadowy care,

No matron sealed with holy vow
In all the land so fair!

PART FOURTH.

THE RESCUE.

A SHIP comes foaming up the bay,
Along the pier she glides;
Before her furrow melts away,
A courier mounts and rides.

"Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear; "Sir Harry Frankland, These."

Sad news to tell the loving pair!

The knight must cross the seas.

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"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,

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"I go by land or sea,

My love, my life, my joy, my pride,

Thy place is still by me!"

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Through town and city, far and wide,
Their wandering feet have strayed,
From Alpine lake to ocean tide,
And cold Sierra's shade.

At length they see the waters gleam
Amid the fragrant bowers

Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream
Her belt of ancient towers.

Red is the orange on its bough,
To-morrow's sun shall fling

O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow
The flush of April's wing.

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 gilded courtiers throng;

The broad moidores have cheated Rome

Of all her lords of song.

Ah! Lisbon dreams not of the day
Pleased with her painted scenes

-

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,
And touched their English gold,

Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame

From over sea is told.

Three hours the first November dawn

Has climbed with feeble ray
Through mists like heavy curtains drawn
Before the darkened day.

How still the muffled echoes sleep!
Hark! hark! a hollow sound,

A noise like chariots rumbling deep
Beneath the solid ground.

The channel lifts, the water slides
And bares its bar of sand,

Anon a mountain billow strides

And crashes o'er the land.

The turrets lean, the steeples reel
Like masts on ocean's swell,
And clash a long discordant peal,
The death-doomed city's knell.

The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves

Beneath the staggering town!

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Around, the lurid mountains glow

With strange unearthly gleams;

While black abysses gape below,
Then close in jagged seams.

The earth has folded like a wave,
And thrice a thousand score,

Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave,
The sun shall see no more!

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