MY MOTHER.
That was a thrilling scene in the old chivalric time—the wine circling around the board, and the banquet-hall ringing with sentiment and song—when, the lady of each knightly heart having been pledged by name, St. Leon arose in his turn, and, lifting the sparkling cup on high, said,—
“I drink to one
Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory is dead;
To one whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions long have passed,
So holy ’tis, and true;
To one whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledge to you.”
Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid his hand upon his sword,
With fury-flashing eye;
And Stanley said, “We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high.”
St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood
Thus lightly to another,—
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence due,
And gently said, “My Mother!”