Comes of thanksgiving: O Life, this is bliss!
But years of pain must purchase hours like this.
But follow we our captive—one whose vest,
And more his stately step and bearing proud,
Spoke nobler birth and being than the rest;
A fair train waited him amid the crowd,
And eagerly an aged servant prest—
As by long service privilege allow'd—
And caught his young lord's hand, then turn'd away
To weep the welcome that he could not say.
"My father, tell me, Garcia, is he well?"
"Oh! God hath kept him in his trial hour."
"And she, mine own, my gentle Isabelle?"
Slowly the answer came; "Within her bower
Such constant tears for thy long absence fell,
That somewhat they have dimm'd thy lovely flower:
But thou art come, and come again to see
Roses which seem'd as if they fled with thee."
He leapt upon his steed, and like the wind
They speed them on; at first his giddy brain
Swam like a chaos—mystery of the mind
Which would guide its own workings, but in vain:
Happy he was, but somewhat undefined
Prest on his spirit with a sense of pain.
Hath the heart, then, foreknowledge of its fate,
Warning at once too early and too late?
Eager he flung him from his horse; he sees
His father's towers mid the dark pines arise,
Beautiful in the moonlight's last, those trees
Hide a small pathway green, direct it lies
To where the castle gardens load the breeze
With lemon odours and the rose's sighs:
He turn'd him to that path, he knew it well—
It was his favourite walk with Isabelle.
