THE QUEEN OF CYPRUS.
119
The lip of pride as if disdain'd
The fond heart which yet his remain'd;
As scorn'd the empire of the land
That must be shared with woman's hand.
The moon upon the bridal shone,
Treachery,—Prince Tancred—he is gone!
Confusion marr'd the fair array;
An armed band are on their way,
The rebel banner is display'd,
And thus is trusting faith repaid.
Irene flung her marriage veil
Aside, her cheek was deadly pale.
But, save that, nothing might declare
That love or grief were struggling there.
Wondering they gazed on their young queen,
So firm her step, so proud her mien.
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