Old forests belt and bar
Her towering battlements;
And all the west, with crest on crest,
The blue o' the hills indents.
Her garden's terrace cliffs
That soar above a sea
Dreamier and fuller of shadowy color
Than sunset's mystery.
And league on league of coast,
Sand-ribbed of wind and wave,
Rolls dim and far with reef and bar
And many an ocean cave.
The morning,--bright with beams
And sea-winds,--wakes the day;
Its breezy lutes and foamy flutes
Make music on the bay.
The deer are roused from rest;
The sea-birds breast the brine;
And from the steep wild torrents leap
Foaming 'neath rock and vine.
But she, in one tall tower,
High built above the tide,
In her heart a thorn, turns from the morn,
Wan-faced and weary-eyed.
Long, long she looks a-sea,
As one who seeks a sail:
But on her view the empty blue
Beats and her eyelids quail.
She turns and slowly goes
Down from her sea-gray towers,
To walk and weep, like one asleep,
Among the salt-slain flowers.
Until the sun is set,
And crocus heavens, grown cold,
Leave all their light to the new moon's white
And one star's point of gold.
Until a breeze from sea
Sets in, of balm and spice
And streams amid the stars, half-hid,
Thin mists as white as ice.
And then her eyes grow large
With hate or one last hope,
And again she bends her gaze where blends
The sea with heaven's slope.
But naught the night reveals,
The night that seems to weep
And shudder down two stars, that drown
Themselves within the deep.
Then to herself she says,
Softly, "Ah God! to know
No death or shame is his, or blame,
Who brought on me this woe!
"What though I know that Hell
At last will have its own;
It will not heal my soul, I feel,
Though there he wail and moan.
"Could I his carrion see,
On yonder crag's wild crest,
Hung up to rot, a traitor's lot,
My soul might find some rest!"...
And this is she God made
Of sunlight and of flowers
For love and kisses and fond caresses--
Yolanda of the Towers.
[Illustration: She raised her oblong lute and smote some chords. Page 230
_Accolon of Gaul_
]