XIX.

Round Santa Clara’s isle that instant came The Basque barqueras in their shallops slight; Their graceful oaring still was plied the same, But one fair pinnace less careered in sight. Ah, where is she--their glory and delight? Rose softly sad and low from distance borne A plaintive strain that in its dying flight Fell on the town where other breasts are torn. ’Tis thus in chorus sweet they raise their plaint forlorn:--

The Dirge.

Weep, Biscaya, weep! ’Mongst dead and dying, On the bloody heap Is Blanca lying. William’s sword hath smote Her bosom heaving, Her on whom we doat Of life bereaving. Weep, Biscaya, weep!

Pierced though William’s sword That bounding billow, Yet his corse adored She makes her pillow. Red is William’s vest, With glory wreathéd. Redder is the breast Transfixed beneath it. Weep, Biscaya, weep!

Ne’er could William stain That bosom tender. How the deed would pain Her brave defender! Who in all the land So crime-convicted? Ah, ’twas Blanca’s hand The wound inflicted. Weep, Biscaya, weep!

Heaven for deeds of note So daring made her. Her’s the arm that smote The French invader. Flashed her carbine true, The Norman felling. Pierced that spirit, too, Its own pure dwelling. Weep, Biscaya, weep!

Ne’er was true-love seen Like her’s undying. Few like her, I ween, The grave defying. Broken heart the sod Can fittest cover. _She_ could not, oh God! Survive her lover. San Sebastian, weep!