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A song of the time when her boy's young cheek Had glow'd on her breast in its slumbers meek; But something which breathed from that mournful
strain Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again, And starting as if from a dream, she cried “Give him proud burial at my side! There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, When the temples are fallen, make there our grave."
And the temples fell, though the spirit pass’d,
Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed
Palace and tower on that plain were left,
There, there is all that still remains of him,
THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night,
Wore man's mute anguish sternly ;- but of one Oh! who shall speak? What words his brow unveil ?
A father following to the grave his son ! That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,
Through the wood-shadows moved the knightly train, With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low,
Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain,
Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reach'd the lone
Baronial chapel, where, the forest gloom
Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Beneath the drooping banners of his line, Whose broider'd fords the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine:
In slumber on his shield.— Then all was done, All still, around the dead. His name was heard Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were
stirr'd By some old song, or tale of battle won, Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; And with the brethren of his fields, the feast Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased Mingled with theirs.—Ev'n thus life's rushing tide Bears back affection from the grave's dark side: Alas! to think of this !- the heart's void place
Filld up so soon !—so like a summer-cloud, All that we loved to pass and leave no trace !
He lay forgotten in his early shroud.
Forgotten? - not of all !--the sunny smile
Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap As at a hunter's bugle-- these things lived Still in one breast, whose silent love survived The pomps of kindred sorrow.-Day by day, On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, Thro' the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing, And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing Through storied windows down. The violet there Might speak of love- a secret love and lowly, And the rose image all things fleet and fair, And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, As for an altar, wove the radiant band ? Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, To blush through every season ?- Blight and chill Might touch the changing woods, but duly still, For years, those gorgeous coronals renew'd,
And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, Even through mid-winter, fill’d the solitude
With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm. Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring In lone devotedness!
One spring-morn rose, And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laidOh! not as 'midst the vineyards, to repose
From the fierce noon--a dark-hair'd peasant maid: Who could reveal her story?— That still face
Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow, And the curved lip, there linger'd yet such grace
As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eyeFor death was on its lids-fell mournfully. But the cold check was sunk, the raven hair Dimm'd the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight?—Her kindred's place Was not amidst the high De Couci race; Yet there her shrine had been! - She grasp'd a
wreathThe tomb's last garland ! - This was love in death!