Through windows richly dight

The mellow sunbeams shine,

But sadly falls their light

On Sancta Clara's shrine.

The King and Court are there,

Robed Priests and Knights in mail;

But every head is bare,

And every cheek is pale.

The young and fair are met,

The brave and haughty come,

But eyes with tears are wet,

And lips with awe are dumb.

In pomp of regal pride

There sits enthron’d a Queen;

Don Pedro at her side

Surveys the solemn scene.

Though grief be on his brow,

Yet tearless is his eye,

He hears each plighted vow

With spirit stern and high.

Yet even He must feel

Far more than tongue could own,

As one by one they kneel

Before that silent throne.

As one by one they take

That passive hand to kiss,

His thoughts and feelings wake

Dreams of departed bliss.

For oh! no life-blood warm

That frame may animate,

But wasted is the form

Thus thron’d in splendid state;

Its glittering crown of gold

Rests on a lifeless head;

Its broider’d robes enfold

The reliques of the dead!

Those robes are but a pall,

However bright their sheen;

She sits before them all

The spectre of a Queen.

They bear her back to earth,

And close the fearful rite,

But not one thought of mirth

The pageant should excite:

For by it may be seen,

In its glory and its gloom,

How brief the space between

The proud throne and silent tomb.