My mantle, purple as the sea,
I drew about my little feet,
And nearer sought my mother's breast:
He came; she spake, not slow to greet
With courteous words the victor-guest.
Slowly my veil my mother's hands
Lifted, to boast the battle's prize;—
“Prince! thou would'st give thy life and lands,
If I but raised it to her eyes!”
V.