And in the rear, with sword and spur,
Follows the Christian conqueror.
And one dark chief rides first of all—
A warrior at his festival—
Chasing his prey, till none are near
To aid the single soldier's spear,
Save one slight boy. Of those who flew,
Three turn, the combat to renew:
They fly, but death is on the field—
That Page's breast was Juan's shield.
He bore the Boy where, in the shade
Of the green palm, a fountain made
Its pleasant music; tenderly
He laid his head upon his knee,
And from the dented helm unrolled
The blood-stained curls of summer gold.
Knew he not then those deep blue eyes,
That lip of rose, and smiles, and sighs?
His Inez!—his! could this be her,—
Thus for his sake a wanderer!—
He spoke not—moved not—but sate there,
A statue in his cold despair,
Watching the lip and cheek decay,
As faded life's last hue away,
While she lay sweet and motionless,
As only faint with happiness.
At length she spoke, in that sweet tone
Woman and love have for their own:
“This is what I prayed might be—
“Has death not sealed my truth to thee!” - - -
A cypress springs by yonder grave,
And music from the fountain-wave
Sings its low dirge to the pale rose
That, near, in lonely beauty blows.
Two lovers sleep beneath. Oh, sweet,
Even in the grave, it is to meet;
Sweet even the death-couch of stone,
When shared with some beloved one;
And sweeter than life the silent rest
Of Inez on her Juan's breast. L. E. L.
