The sun dispelled morn’s shadows dim,
And on the castle shone,
When Violante, more fair than him,
To meet her doom hath gone:
Her lovely form, a garment long
And coarse was wrapped around,
A knotted rope, like cable strong,
Her graceful person bound.
And gushing tear drops blind the eye
Of page and maiden fair;
Nor are Ramiro’s lashes dry,
Fresh moisture glistens there
Pealed from lhe tower the signal bell,
The axe was lifted high
O’er Violante... Ere it fell
She saw her husband nigh.
—‘My lord’ she cried ‘I merit death,
Yet on my bended knee,
Ere from my bosom parts my breath,
I pardon crave from thee.
’Tis not through blighted years to live
Lamenting o’er the past,
But my offense to thee, forgive,
This hour is now my last.
‘On me, for I have wronged thy bed,
Alone let vengeance light,
Nor wreck thy rage upon the head
Of Bernal, hapless knight.’
To grant her wish, Ramiro’s breast
With rising pity burned,
But when she urged her last request,
His former hate returned.
Dark lowered his brow, fierce flashed his eye,
As when his faulchion brave
Repelled the foe,—his left hand high
The fatal signal gave.
Then on that neck of grace and love,
Whose blue veins shining tell
The pureness of the skin above,
The headsman’s weapon fell.