Page:Lyrics of Life, Coates, 1909.djvu/96

 76 O poor, my Mother! Soon, they say,

She hid herself with her child away,

And looked no longer on the day;

But sometimes, when our towers were white,—

Bathed in the moon's celestial light,—

Her casement opened on the night

All tremulous with mystery,

And, motionless, without a sigh,

She stood there, gazing on the sky;

And they who saw her then, declare

There was nor pride nor passion there,—

Only a tearless, mute despair.

I knew her not,—or if I knew,

Forgot her quickly, as children do,—

Alas! as little children do;

But when she died, men say that I

So plaintive wailed in the chamber nigh,

That summoned thither by the cry.

They brought my brother; who, that hour,

Bore me away to this lonely tower—

This fortress of our ancient power,