PART II.

Merrily through the town they went A proud, chivalric cavalcade Of knights and nobles and esquires, In silken robes arrayed.

And each sustained his high degree, But foremost there, without a peer In manly majesty of mien, Rode Lionel De Vere.

The ostrich plumes which flowed and waved In silver clouds above his brow, Were gray and lustreless beside That forehead’s dazzling snow.

The diamond broach which held the plume Flashed in the sunlight, like a star, Throwing its ever radiant rays In rainbow hues afar.

The ruby burning on his breast, Blazing and blossoming as he turned, Was fervid as his heart, which, fed With honor, nobly burned.

And as he passed, his lofty head Bending in answer to the cries Of loving vassals, nobler form Never met woman’s eyes.

A smile for one of mean degree, A courteous bow for one of high, So modulated both that each Saw friendship in his eye.

Onward he rode, while like the sound Of surf along a shingly shore, The murmur of a people’s joy Marched, herald-like, before.

Timidly, while before them pressed The peasants, in a little nook Two women stood—two timid things— To snatch a hasty look:

One, weak and old—an agéd dame— December toward its latter day; The other young and pure and fair, The maiden month of May:

Trembling with curious delight She rose on tip-toe, gazing through The mass of heads which, like a hedge, Bordered the avenue.

The sound of horns, which rolled and broke Like summer thunder, and the crash Of cymbals, while the hound-like drum Howled underneath the lash;

The toss of plumes, the neigh of steeds, The silken murmur of attire, As the proud cavalcade drew nigh, Filled her young heart with fire.

He came, her lord, the lord of all Who gazed and gazed afar or near, And as he bowed they hailed with shouts Lord Lionel De Vere.

A trouble flitted through her face— A shadow, and before her eyes She passed her hands, as if to check Some terrible surmise.

Nearer and nearer, while like one Struck dumb she gazed, the noble came, And as he passed the people flung Their blessings on his name.

One little cry—a feeble cry— The name of “Clarence,” and she passed: He heard it not, its tiny sound Died in the clarion’s blast.