Charlotte Brontë

“ And there are cities, ’neath her starry skies,
As fair as ever blest, with beauty, mortal eyes.
Blondel’s Song.
The moonlight; sleeps low, on the hills of Provence;
The stars are all tracking, their paths in the sky:
How softly, and brightly, their golden orbs glance,
Where the long shining waves, of the silver Rhone lie
The tow’rs of De Courcy rise high in the beam,
From sky to earth trembling, so lustrous and pale,
Around them there dwells the deep hush of a dream,
And stilled is the murmur of River, and Gale. ”

“ Where sits a white form ’neath a tall chestnut tree
Which waves its brown branches, all dark’ling and grim,
O’er the young Rose of Courcy, Sweet Anna Marie.
And who kneels beside her? A warrior in mail.
On his helm there’s a plume In his hand there’s a lance
And why does the cheek of the lady turn pale?
Why weeps in her beauty The Flower of Provence?
She weeps for her lover, this night, are they met
To breathe a farewell, ’Neath love’s own holy star;
For to-morrow the crest of the young Lavalette,
Will float highest, and first in the van of the war. ”

“ Which told of dungeons, where the light ne’er play’d,
Of prison-walls, of fetter-bolt and chain;
Of Captives, ’neath a Tyrant’s durance laid;
Never, to view the sun’s bright face again;
Never to breathe the air, of free, wild hill and plain. ”