"Away!" He knew the sweet voice; away,
With never a look behind;
Away, away, with echoing neigh

And streaming mane, goes the gallant Grey,
Like an eagle before the wind.

They have cleared the lists, they have passed her bower,
And still they are thundering on;

They are over the bridge-another hour,
A league behind them the Leaning Tower
And the spires of Saint Antoine.

Away, away in their wild career
Past the slopes of Mont Surjeu;
Thrice have they swum the swift Isère,
And firm and clear in the purple air
Soars the Grand Som full in view.

Rough is their path and sternly steep,
Yet halting never a whit,
Onward the terrible pace they keep,

While the good Grey, breathing free and deep,
Steadily strains at the bit.

They have left the lands where the tall hemp springs, Where the clover bends to the bee;

They have left the hills where the red vine flings Her clustered curls of a thousand rings

Round the arms of the mulberry tree.

They have left the lands where the walnut lines
The roads, and the chestnuts blow;

Beneath them the thread of the cataract shines,
Around them the plumes of the warrior pines,
Above them the rock and the snow.

Thick on his shoulders the foam flakes lay,
Fast the big drops roll from his chest,
Yet on, ever on, goes the gallant Grey,
Bearing the maiden as smoothly as spray
Asleep on the ocean's breast.

Onward and upward, bound after bound,
By Bruno's Bridge he goes;
And now they are treading holy ground,
For the feet of her flying Caliph sound
By the cells of the Grand Chartreuse.

Around them the darkling cloisters frown,
The sun in the valley hath sunk;

When right in her path, lo! the long white gown,
The withered face and the shaven crown

And the shrivelled hand of a monk.

A light like a glittering halo played
Round the brow of the holy man;
With lifted finger her course he stayed,
"All is not well," the pale lips said,
"With the heir of Miolan.

"But in Chambery hangs a relic rare

Over the altar stone:

Take it, and speed to thy Bridegroom's bier;
If the Sacristan question who sent thee there,
Say, Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.'

وو

She bent to the mane while the cross he signed Thrice o'er the suppliant head:

"Away with thee, child!" and away like the wind She went, with a startled glance behind, For she heard an ominous tread.

The moon is up, 'tis a glorious night,
They are leaving the rock and the snow,
Mont Blanc is before her, phantom white,
While the swift Isère, with its line of light,
Cleaves the heart of the valley below.

But hark to the challenge, "Who rideth alone?" "O warder, bid me not wait!

My lover lies dead and the Dauphin o'erthrown— A message I bear from the Monk of Cologne"And she swept thro' Chambery's gate.

The Sacristan kneeleth in midnight prayer
By Chambery's altar stone.

"What meaneth this haste, my daughter fair?”
She stooped and murmured in his ear

The name of the Monk of Cologne.

Slowly he took from its jewelled case
A kerchief that sparkled like snow,
And the Minster shone like a lighted vase
As the deacon unveiled the gleaming face
Of the Santo Sudario.

A prayer, a tear, and to saddle she springs,
Clasping the relic bright;

Away, away, for the fell hoof rings

Down the hillside behind her-God give her wings!
The fiend and his horse are in sight.

On, on, the gorge of the Doriat's won,
She is nearing her Savoyard's home,
By the grand old road where the warrior son
Of Hanno swept with his legions dun,
On his mission of hatred to Rome.

The ancient oaks seem to rock and reel
As the forest rushes by her,

But nearer cometh the clash of steel,
And nearer falleth the fatal heel,
With its flickering trail of fire.

Then first the brave young heart grew sick
'Neath its load of love and fear,

For the Grey is breathing faint and quick,
And his nostrils burn and the drops fall thick
From the point of each drooping ear.

His glorious neck hath lost its pride,
His back fails beneath her weight,
While steadily gaining, stride by stride,
The Black Knight thunders to her side--
Heaven, must she meet her fate?

She shook the loose rein o'er the trembling head,
She laid her soft hand on his mane,

She called him her Caliph, her desert-bred,

She named the sweet springs where the palm trees spread Their arms o'er the burning plain.

But the Grey looked back and sadly scanned
The maid with his earnest eyes-

A moment more and her cheek is fanned
By the black steed's breath, and the demon hand.
Stretches out for the virgin prize.

But she calls on Christ, and the kerchief white
Waves full in the face of her foe:

Back with an oath reeled the Wizard Knight
As his steed crouched low in the wondrous light

Of the Santo Sudario.

Blinded they halt while the maiden hies,
The murmuring Arc she can hear,

And, lo! like a cloud on the shining skies,
Atop of yon perilous precipice,

The castle of Miolan's Heir.

"Fail not, my steed!"-Round her Caliph's head The relic shines like the sun :

Leap after leap up the spiral steep,

He speeds to his master's castle keep,
And his glorious race is won.

"Ho, warder!"-At sight of the gallant Grey
The drawbridge thundering falls:

Wide goes the gate at that jubilant neigh,
And, glory to God for his mercy to-day,
She is safe within Miolan's walls.

THE FIFTH SONG.

I.

IN the dim grey dawn by Miolan's gate
The fiend on his wizard war-horse sate.
The fair-haired maid at his trumpet call
Creeps weeping and wan to the outer wall:
"My curse on thy venom, my curse on thy spell,
They have slain the master I loved too well.

Thou saidst he should wake when the joust was o'er,
But oh, he never will waken more!"

She tore her fair hair, while the demon laughed, Saying, "Sound was the sleep that thy lover quaffed; But bid the warder unbar the gate,

That the lost Christine may meet her fate."

II.

"Hither, hither thou mailèd man

With those woman's tears in thine eyes, With thy brawny cheek all wet and wan, Show me the heir of Miolan,

Lead where my Bridegroom lies."

And he led her on with a sullen tread,
That fell like a muffled groan,
Through halls as silent as the dead,
'Neath long grey arches overhead,

Till they came to the shrine of Moan.

What greets her there by the torches' glare?
In vain hath the mass been said!
Low bends the sire in mute despair,
Low kneels the Hermit in silent prayer,
Between them the mighty dead.

No tear she shed, no word she spoke,
But gliding up to the bier,

She took her stand by the bed of oak
Where her Savoyard lay in his sable cloak,
His hand still fast on his spear.

She bent her burning cheek to his,
And rested it there awhile,

Then touched his lips with a lingering kiss,
And whispered him thrice, "My love, arise,
I have come for thee many a mile!"

The man of God and the ancient Knight
Arose in tremulous awe;

She was so beautiful, so bright,
So spirit-like in her bridal white,
It seemed in the dim funereal light
'Twas an angel that they saw.

"Thro' forest fell, o'er mount and dell,
Like the falcon, hither I've flown,
For I knew that a fiend was loose from hell,
And I bear a token to break this spell
From Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.

"Dost thou know it, love? when fire and sword Flamed round the Holy Shrine,

It was won by thee from the Paynim horde,
It was brought by thee to Bruno's guard,
A gift from Palestine.

"Wake, wake, my love! In the name of Grace, That hath known our uttermost woe,

Lo! this thorn-bound brow on thine I place !"
And, once more revealed, shone the wondrous face
Of the Santo Sudario.