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THE MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.
So was it deem'd—I smote the turban'd race:
Did zeal or did ambition nerve my blow?
Or matter'd it to me, on Buda's domes
Whether the crescent or the cross prevail'd?
Mean time on alien climes I dissipated
Wealth from my subjects wrung, the peasant's tribute,
Earn'd by his toil. Mean time in ruin laid
My mould'ring castles—Yes, ye moss-grown walls!
Ye tow'rs defenceless!—I revisit ye
Shame-stricken.—Where are all your trophies now?
Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult,
That spoke the grandeur of my house, the homage
Of neighb'ring barons? Thus did Thibalt, Raoul,
Or Clodomir, my brave progenitors,
Creep like a spy, and watch to thrid your gates
Unnotic'd? No; with martial attributes,
With waving banners and enlivening fifes,
They bade your portal wide unfold its jaws,
And welcome them and triumph.
Did zeal or did ambition nerve my blow?
Or matter'd it to me, on Buda's domes
Whether the crescent or the cross prevail'd?
Mean time on alien climes I dissipated
Wealth from my subjects wrung, the peasant's tribute,
Earn'd by his toil. Mean time in ruin laid
My mould'ring castles—Yes, ye moss-grown walls!
Ye tow'rs defenceless!—I revisit ye
Shame-stricken.—Where are all your trophies now?
Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult,
That spoke the grandeur of my house, the homage
Of neighb'ring barons? Thus did Thibalt, Raoul,
Or Clodomir, my brave progenitors,
Creep like a spy, and watch to thrid your gates
Unnotic'd? No; with martial attributes,
With waving banners and enlivening fifes,
They bade your portal wide unfold its jaws,
And welcome them and triumph.
FLORIAN.
True, my lord;
They reign'd the monarchs of a score of miles;
Imperial lords of ev'ry trembling cottage
Within their cannon's mandate. Deadly feuds
For obsolete offences, now array'd
Their livery'd banditti, prompt to deal
On open vallies and unguarded herds,
On helpless virgins and unweapon'd boors,
The vengeance of their tribe. Sometimes they dar'd
To scowl defiance to the distant throne,
Imprison'd, canton'd inaccessibly
In their own rock-built dungeons—Are these glories
True, my lord;
They reign'd the monarchs of a score of miles;
Imperial lords of ev'ry trembling cottage
Within their cannon's mandate. Deadly feuds
For obsolete offences, now array'd
Their livery'd banditti, prompt to deal
On open vallies and unguarded herds,
On helpless virgins and unweapon'd boors,
The vengeance of their tribe. Sometimes they dar'd
To scowl defiance to the distant throne,
Imprison'd, canton'd inaccessibly
In their own rock-built dungeons—Are these glories
My