That was a sacrifice upon the shrine
Itself had reared! I will begin it now,
Like an old tale:—There was a Princess once,
More beautiful than Spring, when the warm look
Of Summer calls the blush upon her cheek,
The matchless Isabel of Portugal.
She moved in beauty, and where'er she went
Some heart did homage to her loveliness.—
But there was one—a youth of lowly birth—
Who worshipped her!—I have heard many say
Love lives on hope; they knew not what they said:
Hope is Love's happiness, but not its life;—
How many hearts have nourished a vain flame
In silence and in secret, though they knew
They fed the scorching fire that would consume them!
Young Juan loved in veriest hopelessness!—
He saw the lady once at matin time,—
Saw her when bent in meek humility
Before the altar; she was then unveiled,
And Juan gazed upon the face which was
Thenceforth the world to him! Awhile he looked
Upon the white hands clasped gracefully;
The rose-bud lips, moving in silent prayer;
The raven hair, that hung as a dark cloud
On the white brow of morning! She arose,
And as she moved, her slender figure waved
Like the light cypress, when the breeze of Spring
Wakes music in its boughs. As Juan knelt
It chanced her eyes met his, and all his soul
Maddened in that slight glance! She left the place;
Yet still her shape seemed visible, and still
He felt the light through the long eyelash steal
And melt within his heart!----
