Page 12 - Poetry-Romance

To Nora, all confiding,
Whom he always called ma belle.

That he came of lofty lineage
From the heart of old Castile,
That his ancestors were known to be
All men as true as steel.

That he had left his native country
In disgust and in disdain,
To share the hapless exile
Of the King and Queen of Spain.

That he was waiting here so patiently
All sorrowfully alone;
The issue of a coup d’etat
Which would place him near the throne.

And Leonora mused upon
The hour when she should reign
Triumphantly as chatelaine
In realms Chateaux des Espagne.

Of the robes of point d’Alençon,
Of silks of lustrous hue;
Of royal purple velvet,
Of liquid azure blue.

And then the antique jewels,
With settings rich and rare;
The grand heraldic coronal
She would wear upon her hair.

Should the weather there prove fitful,
Oh, no, she need not fear;
She would need no aqua scutem,
She would wrap up in Cashmere.

Such old and costly laces
Mantillas of real thread,
Which she would throw so gracefully
Around her pretty head.

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