Two women gather outside a castle and in front of a stone railing. A woman dressed in a veil and an ornate light-coloured gown stands and looks toward the ground. She clasps her hands in front of her body. A second woman in a simple dark gown sits next to her. She plays the lute and looks up toward the first woman. Trees and a body of water are in the distance. A tree in a decorative vase stands to the right of the illustration. There are clouds beyond the castle. Full-page illustration.

The Captive Princess. By Miss M. A. Browne . It was a sweet and soothing strain, The voice that sang was silvery clear, It fell, like spring’s refreshing rain, Upon the lovely captive’s ear : It was not only music’s power That thus upon her spirit wrought, But with the dreams of many an hour Of by-gone bliss its tones were fraught. It was a song of other shores Than those which girt her prison round ; It came, as some soft wind explores A barren rock, with soothing sound. Proud had the captive Princess been, Unmoved ’midst grief for many a day, But a beloved, distant scene Awaked to memory at the lay. Broods she upon her father’s halls, Their regal pomp, their stately ease ? Ah no ! her tender heart recalls Far lovelier, dearer things than these ; She rambles through the forest walks, O’erarched with graceful elm and beech, And one beside her fondly talks In the sweet language love can teach. The russet cloak, the cap of green, Bespeak a woodman’s low degree, But in his brow and eye serene Dwells nature’s own nobility ; His words, his thoughts, a soul proclaim That humblest raiment cannot dim ; She never feels one throb of shame, To bow her woman’s heart to him. Yes, she hath loved, she loveth now, Though he be nameless and unknown ; Her faith is his by many a vow, Whispered in low and timid tone. It was that only, early love, The natural blossom of the heart, Nurtured and bless’d from Heaven above, Nor sown, nor pruned, by worldly art. Alas, the mournful eve, when she Had stolen from her royal home, And waited by the well-known tree, Until the meeting hour should come ! Then did the baron’s hostile band Surprise the wandering Princess there, And bore her to another land, Regardless of her wild despair. They bore her to the baron’s hold, The Baron Hubert, who in vain Had tried the power of love and gold The beauteous lady’s hand to gain. And here the Baron Hubert vowed That, whatsoever should betide, He yet would tame the Princess proud Into a meek and humble bride. So first he tried persuasion’s art, And thought rich presents might prevail, But the bright lady’s faithful heart True love had cased in coat of mail. Rare gifts, obsequious tendance, all Bent not her purpose or her will ; Though gay and gilded was the thrall, She felt she was a prisoner still. One friend ’midst many foes she found, A hand-maiden, whose merry glance, And foot, like zephyr flitting round, Spoke her a child of laughing France, When darkest sorrow seemed to lower, The lady’s grief she would beguile, And lightened many a heavy hour With pleasant tales, and song, and smile. It was a soft and sunny day ; The Princess sought the terraced walks And tried to wile the time away With her attendant’s mirthful talk. At length she bade the damsel sing— She had exhausted all her store, And wandered musing o’er each string, Seeking some lay unsung before. It was that sweet and soothing strain, The Captive Princess knew it well, And o’er her heart and o’er her brain It brought a strange and dreamy spell. Tears to her eyes unbidden rushed— How oft, in summer twilight dear, That song upon her soul had gushed, The appointed signal he was near ! “ Where didst thou learn that lay ?” she said. “ Lady, from one who wanders far : Nay, some have deemed that he is dead, But his, in sooth, these lordships are. ’Twas Baron Hubert’s nephew brave ; Full oft, before he went away, My willing ear attention gave When he would sing some curious lay. “ This terrace walk he paced full oft, Singing that old melodious strain ; Ah never voice so rich and soft Will frame its mystic tones again. Three summers since, he left our land, Ah sorely may his vassals mourn, For Hubert rules with iron hand, Deeming he never will return !” The Princess sighed and turned away ; The tale had interest strange and strong, And often from that summer day She asked again to hear that song. And oftener she, to tell the truth, Walked on the terrace than before, The thought less of the peasant youth, The of the Baron’s nephew more ! A short and drear November day Was followed by a stormy night, When a poor pilgrim, clad in gray, The castle sought in weary plight. He paused before he crossed the court, For music’s sound and merry din Told of the banquet’s festal sport, And the wild mirth that reigned within. At length he humbly knocked, and prayed A shelter from the pelting storm ; “ Right welcome here !” the menials said, And led him to a corner warm. “ In truth,” they cried, “ thou well hast sped To-night, Sir Pilgrim of the shrine, For now doth Baron Hubert wed The beauteous Princess Emmeline.” A forward start the pilgrim made, Then closer drew his scanty cloak, And sate where fell a heavy shade From a broad screen of ancient oak. Silent he sate, untouched the food A vassal brought with liberal hand, But his dark eye beneath his hood The busy scene intently scanned. The Baron Hubert’s deep-toned voice Now rose in words of boastful pride— “ Fair sirs, behold our lovely choice— A health unto our royal bride !” The vassals heard their lord’s command, They filled their goblets to obey, But ere they drank a lady’s hand Was raised—a sweet voice uttered “ Stay !” It was the Princess Emmeline ! She flung aside the bridal veil, Her eye had light almost divine, Although her cheek was very pale. “ Forbear,” she cried, “ this mockery ! Lord Hubert, hear this vow of mine : I tell thee I will sooner die Than ever let thee call me thine ! “ I love—” she said no more—for down She sank amidst her maiden troop, And who hath rushed, with angry frown And voice of thunder, towards the group ? Who holds her in his manly arms, Who prays her to revive and wake, To put away her wild alarms, To live, to smile, for Albert’s sake ? ’Tis he—the pilgrim !—it is he, The owner of this castle fair ! Oh, Baron Hubert ! shame to thee ! His vassals know and own him there. I need not tell the rest ; full well Will gentle ladies guess it all, How from his state the Baron fell, And no one e’er bemoaned his fall ; How Albert, now the castle’s lord, Resolved no more afar to roam, And how the Princess was restored In faith and honour to her home ; And how her young deliverer claimed Some guerdon from her native land, And, when a ransom rich was named, At once exchanged it for her hand. Once more she paced the forest walk, O’erhung with graceful elm and beech, Once more she heard a deep voice talk In the sweet language love can teach. Once more she trod the Baron’s halls, Bound in her heart, though free in will, And ever, midst their ancient walls, She dwelt a willing captive still !