The glittering axe was broken in their arms,

Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade.

Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow

A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roll'd
With music in the growing breeze of Time,

The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs
Shall move the stony bases of the world.

And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary

Is violate, our laws broken: fear we not

To break them more in their behoof, whose arms
Champion'd our cause and won it with a day
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast,
When dames and heroines of the golden year
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring,
To rain an April of ovation round

Their statues, born aloft, the three: but come,

We will be liberal, since our rights are won.

Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind,

Ill nurses; but descend, and proffer these

The brethren of our blood and cause, that there

Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender ministries

Of female hands and hospitality.'

She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms, Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led A hundred maids in train across the Park.

Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they came,
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest by them went
The enamour'd air sighing, and on their curls
From the high tree the blossom wavering fell,
And over them the tremulous isles of light
Slided, they moving under shade: but Blanche
At distance follow'd so they came: anon
Thro' open field into the lists they wound
Timorously; and as the leader of the herd
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun,
And follow'd up by a hundred airy does,

Steps with a tender foot, light as on air,
The lovely, lordly creature floated on

To where her wounded brethren lay; there stay'd;
Knelt on one knee, -the child on one,-and prest

Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers,

And happy warriors, and immortal names,

And said You shall not lie in the tents but here,

And nursed by those for whom you fought, and served With female hands and hospitality."

Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance,

She past my way. Up started from my side
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye,
Silent; but when she saw me lying stark,
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly pale,
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd; and when she saw
The haggard father's face and reverend beard
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood

Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of pain
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead past

A shadow, and her hue changed, and she said:

He saved my life: my brother slew him for it

No more at which the king in bitter scorn

Drew from my neck the painting and the tress,
And held them up: she saw them, and a day
Rose from the distance on her memory,

When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche:

And then once more she look'd at my pale face:

Till understanding all the foolish work

Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all,

Her iron will was broken in her mind

Her noble heart was molten in her breast;

She bow'd, she set the child on the earth; she laid

A feeling finger on my brows, and presently

'O Sire,' she said, 'he lives: he is not dead :

O let me have him with my brethren here

In our own palace: we will tend on him
Like one of these; if so, by any means,

To lighten this great clog of thanks, that make
progress falter to the woman's goal.'

Our

She said but at the happy word 'he lives'
My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my wounds.
So those two foes above my fallen life,

With brow to brow like night and evening mixt
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole
A little nearer, till the babe that by us,
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede,
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass,
Uncared for, spied its mother and began
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal
Brook'd not, but clamouring out 'Mine-mine-not yours,
It is not yours, but mine: give me the child'
Ceased all on tremble: piteous was the cry :
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouth'd,

And turn'd each face her way: wan was her cheek
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn,

Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye,

And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half