Was it in thee, fair Pregny, other while,
That Gallia's sorrowing Empress sought repose?
And did thy wondrous loveliness beguile
Her wounded spirit of its cruel woes?

Did she forget to weep for days gone by,
Amidst the holy quiet of thy bowers,
The golden sunshine of thy summer sky,
The beauty of thy fountains, trees and flowers?

To muse, to dream on Leman's shore; to grow
Familiar with its voices, to behold
Its face at morn with blushes all aglow,
At evening crowned with coronals of gold;

To see the starlight bind, with silver bands,
A myriad diamonds on the pebbly shore,
Where the fair wavelets link their dimpled hands,
And murmur softly: “We return no more;”

To hold communion with the Alps; to climb
The vine-clad hills on which Mont Blanc looks down;
To wed heart, mind and soul to the sublime,
Methinks were recompense for a lost crown.

Ay, for a crown, with all its anxious cares
And hollow guild, which she too well did prove;
But not a nation's worship, blessings, prayers,
Could recompense her slighted woman's love.

She could have borne, perchance, with wounded pride,
To see another fill her regal throne;
But, oh! to know that other was the bride
Of him whose wedded love was once her own,

Wrought a wild agony of pride and pain,
Tormenting jealousy, all bitter strife,
And maddening thought that poisons heart and brain,
And burns and cankers to the core of life.

Oh, in the loneliness of those sad days,
Far from the pomp and glare of courtly strife,
How wearily she turned a backward gaze
On the strange panorama of her life!

She saw a summer island far away,
With lofty palm trees and acacia bowers,
Where, like a blossom's breath; a wild-bird's lay,
Passed o'er her sunny heart sweet girlhood's hours.

Then, in an ancient minster, dim and grand,
There was a while-robed priest, an organ's swell,
And she did kneel and give her maiden hand
And plighted troth to one who loved her well.

Then there was sudden woe and weeping sore,
And a swift messenger, with white lips, said
Her gallant husband would return no more;
He fought too well, too bravely—he was dead!

Then was a prison cell and brooding night,
Damp walls, cold iron bars and stifling breath,
And the deep groans of those whom morn would light
By the blood-crimsoned guillotine to death.

Then there were jewelled lamps in palace halls,
And gallant men and women famed and fair,
Statues in niches, pictures on the walls,
Red wine and revelry—and she was there.

Then there were pealing bells and nodding plumes,
Triumphal arches, royal pageantry,
High altars, waving censers, rare perfumes,
Beauty, magnificence and chivalry.

An armed host, with eagle banners furled;
Statesmen, archhishops, all the land's renown,
And there the conqueror of half a world
Placed on her peerless brow an empire's crown.

Then courtly men and noble dames were met
In solemn conclave in a royal hall;
Some cheeks were pale, and many an eye was wet,
And there was sorrow in the hearts of all.

She entered there, the saddest and the last;
She wrote one little word—it sealed her fate,
Dimmed all the present, blotted out the past,
And left her future more than desolate.