Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/105

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And one—of all the loftiest there— Thrill'd in a woman's form.

A woman, meekly bending O'er the slumber of her child, With her soft sad eyes of weeping love, As the Virgin Mother's mild. Oh! roughly cradled was thy Babe, 'Midst the clash of spear and lance, And a strange, wild bower was thine, young Queen! Fair Marguerite of France!

A dark and vaulted chamber, Like a scene for wizard-spell, Deep in the Saracenic gloom Of the warrior citadel; And there 'midst arms the couch was spread, And with banners curtain'd o'er, For the Daughter of the Minstrel-land, The gay Provençal shore!