X.
Then she raised her eyes to Heaven, and threw back her golden hair,
And in the streaming sunlight calm and saintly stood she there;
While upon her snowy bosom she meekly crossed her hands—
You'd take her for an Angel as she there in beauty stands.
XI.
What! shrink ye now, false cravens!—do ye fear yon pale-faced girl?
Tigers, traitors, as ye are, dare ye touch one golden curl?
King Alonzo's gold is tempting, yet fain ye now would fly
From the calm and holy glance of that tearful azure eye.
XII.
It was but for a moment's pause—the next their daggers gleam,
And she falls, the young and lovely, by Mondego's fated stream;
Like red rain on the young flowers, pours forth life's crimson tide—
And softly murmuring, Pedro! she looked to Heaven, and died.
THE WAIWODE
FROM THE RUSSIAN.