The tranquil convent’s hushed repose,[187] and the splendors of a throne[188];
No marvel that the lady wept—it was the land of France—
The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance!
The past was bright, like those fair hills[189] so far beyond her bark;
The future[190], like the gathering night, was ominous and dark[191]!
One gaze again—one long, last gaze—“Adieu, fair France, to thee!”[192]
The breeze comes forth—she is alone on the unconscious sea!
The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood,
And in a turret chamber high[193] of ancient Holyrood
Sat Mary, listening[194] to the rain, and sighing with the winds,