II.

      "Cousin, pray how speeds your wooing?"
         Laughing, ask'd bright Madeline;
      "Love hath oft been man's undoing——
         Cousin, 'twill be yours, I ween,
                         I trust not Lady Claire.
      True, she is made of sweet device,
      But love thee!—- she hath heart of ice,
                          Although she be so fair!

      "I could count upon my fingers
         Of her lovers half a score!
      Never long with one she lingers;
         Always she hath two or more,
                         Although she is so meek!
      Thou wilt serve to please her leisure,
      She is kind beyond all measure,
                         Blushing through her cheek!"

      Rose the scarlet to his bronzed brow,
        In a quick and burning tide;
      From his lip a curse was breathed low,
        Words of ire and shamed pride,
                        Against the Lady Claire.
      Changed his love to hatred wrathful
      He had deem'd her far more faithful
                       Ev'n than she was fair.

                              III.

      O'er the glaring, sultry noontide
        Comes a shade of fear and woe;
      Steamy mists down every hill-side
        Creep with fever-breathings slow:
                                 The pest is in the town!
      Every face grows pale with sorrow;
      Every soul looks on the morrow,
                        As no more its own!

      In her chamber, closed and darken'd,
        As she fain would bar out Death,
      Lady Madeline has hearken'd
        With a hush'd and silent breath
                        To her damsel's tale:
      "Each man flieth from his neighbour,
      Shunn'd are friends, and ceased is labour
                        All throughout the dale!"

      Many days they two together
        Lived within that perfumed room;
      All the light, and sun, and weather
        Hidden from its shrinking gloom;
                        List'ning to the Bell,
      Whose throbbing, long, continuous chime,
      Told who pass'd away from Time—-
                        To Heaven or to Hell!

      While the awful pest was reaping
         Its black harvest in the town,
      Rose a cry of bitter weeping
         For one sudden stricken down
                         In all his strength and pride.
      Fled his servants from his presence,
      Leaving with him death and silence
                         Whate'er might betide.

      Glow'd the summer in the woodlands,
        Hot and feverish, dry and bright;
      Died the heather on the moorlands,
        Crisp'd and wither'd in one night,
                        By some foul poison-blast;
      In the gardens flowers lay,
      Changing into brown decay,
                        As the blight went past.

      In the air a heated humming
        As of noisy summer-fly,
      And the deep and anger'd booming
        Of the bee that flitteth by
                       To its honey'd hive;
      The busy wasp, the stinging gnat,
      The slow and stealthy creeping cat,
                       Alone appear to thrive.

      Not a breath upon the heather,
        Not a cloud in all the sky,
      Not a tone would lift a feather
        From the grass all scorch'd and dry;
                       Not a bird on wing;
      The dew, the mists forget to weep;
      The day itself seems half asleep,
                       Burnt up the fairy ring.

      Pours the noon through every window,
        Where he lies upon his bed—-
      Glare and stillness —- not a shadow
        E'en to fall upon his head;
                        Untended, all alone;
      Thirsting for a drop of water;
      Writhing in his helpless torture;
                         Friends and followers gone.

      All his face is dark with anger,
        Dark with sorrow more than pain—-
      There he lies, like any stranger,
        Left to call, and call in vain,
                        For some familiar hand.
      With a black and troubled eye
      Turns he on his face to die,
                        Gone all his hireling band.

      From his lip a troubled prayer
        Oozes painfully and slow;
      Murmuring through the heavy air,
        Sadly tremulous and low,
                       Full of great despair.
      List! a swift step on the floor,
      One faithful heart is at the door
                       It is the Lady Claire!

      Falls her soft hand like a blessing
        On his hot and fever'd brow;
      Her voice is gentle and caressing
        In its words, so kind and low:—-
                        "O Bertram, thou must live
      For I am thine, and thou art mine!
      By all the summer suns that shine,
                        My life for thine I'd give!"

      Like a pleasant, shaded silence
        To the sultry heat of noon,
      Is her quiet, loving presence,
        Tender, soothing, kind and boon.
                         "Is this the heart of ice?
      O! thou art good beyond all measure,
      My hope, my joy, my sweetest treasure,
                         Love's faithfullest device!

      " Wake I now, or am I dreaming.
        Have I learnt thy own true worth?
      Art thou but a vision gleaming
        Through my last dark hours of earth,
                        Or art thou Lady Claire?
      Lay thy hand upon my hand—-
      She is the fairest in the land—-
                        O, she is winsome fair!