She, the Provençaler, grudged thee
Thy hard-earnèd name of queen,
As a hated rival judged thee,
Made thee victim of her spleen.
Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,
With thy mud crown on thy head,
Thou art saved by God’s eternal
Goodness, thou at last art dead.
As thy mother, so thy Father
Mercy show’d thee from above;
This He did, methinks, the rather
In that thou so much didst love.
THE APOLLO GOD.
The convent stands high on the rocky steep,
The Rhine beneath it glistens;
The youthful nun doth eagerly peep
Through the lattice window, and listens.
A bark of fable is sailing past,
By the evening glow tinged brightly;
While chequer’d pennons stream from the mast,
With laurels and flowers crown’d lightly.
Amid-ship stands a beauteous youth,
With flowing auburn tresses;
Of very ancient cut, in truth,
His gold and purple dress is.
Before his feet nine women lie,
Of marble-lovely graces;
A tunic fair and loop’d up high
Each slender form embraces.
The golden-tress’d one sweetly sings,
And likewise plays his lyre;
The song the poor nun’s bosom stings,
And sets it all on fire.
She makes a cross, and once again
The nun repeats the measure;
The cross scares not her blissful pain,
Nor checks her bitter pleasure.