Next day there was a sound of pity heard
In the proud streets of Seville: at the foot
Of Count Hernando's statue—(that one raised
To honour him, when, first and last in battle,
He singly stood against the Moors, and turned
The fortune of the fight)—as if in prayer,
A Maiden knelt; her long hair hid her face,
And its black curls were drenched with the thick dew.
She had been all night there, for some recalled
Seeing a pale girl kneeling there when first
Upon the statue fell the cold moonlight.
There was a wreath of laurel hung above,
Fresh, green; below it, like an offering,
A cypress braid, with one pale withered rose
Bound by a broken chain of gold. They touched the hands,
When the pale maiden answered not their words;
They were like marble, heavy, white and chill;
They parted from the face the thick dark hair,
And looked upon a corpse!L. E. L.
