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And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion, in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd
The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out—“Oh! undefiled!
I am thy mother-spurn me not, my child !”

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight: stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days,
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o’erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank - 'twas but a moment- yet too much
For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone,
Those long fair tresses- they still brightly wore
Their carly pride, though bound with pearls no more-
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rollid,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o'er her-call'd her—'twas too lateDead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde !

THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.

“O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times."

As You Like It.

Fallen was the House of Giafar; and its name,
The high romantic name of Barmecide,
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores,
By the swift Tigris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath,
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, ,
Had so pass'd sentence: but man's chainless heart
Hides that within its depths which never yet
Th’ oppressor's thought could reach.

'Twas desolate Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased; The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales Had ceased; the guests were gone.

Yet still one voice Was there — the fountain's; through those eastern

courts, Over the broken marble and the grass, Its low clear music shedding mournfully.

And still another voice !-an aged man,
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath
His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate
On a white column's fragment; and drew forth,
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades,
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill

To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale He told that sad yet stately solitude, Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom, Like waters in the waste; and calling up, By song or high recital of their deeds, Bright solemn shadows of its vanish'd race To people their own halls : with these alone, In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts Held still unbroken converse. He had been Rear'd in his lordly dwelling, and was now The ivy of its ruins, unto which His fading life seem'd bound. Day rollid on day, And from that scene the loneliness was fled; For crowds around the grey-hair'd chronicler Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze Wanders through forest branches, and is met By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, The spirit of his passionate lament, As through their stricken souls it pass'd, awoke One echoing murmur.-But this might not be Under a despot's rule, and, summond thence, The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne: Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, And with his white lips rigidly compressid ; Till, in submissive tones, he ask'd to speak Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine forth. Was it to sue for grace?- His burning heart Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, And he was changed !—and thus, in rapid words, Th’ o'ermastering thoughts more strong than death

found way.

“And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and

the brave, With the glory on their brows, are gone before me

to the grave ? What is there left to look on now, what brightness

in the land ? I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their

princely band!

“ My chiefs ! my chiefs ! the old man comes that in

your halls was nursedThat follow'd you to many a fight, where flash'd your

sabres first That bore your children in his arms, your name upon

his heart: Oh! must the music of that name with him from

earth depart?

" It shall not be! a thousand tongues, though human

voice were still, With that high sound the living air trumphantly

shall fill; The wind's free flight shall bear it on as wandering

seeds are sown, And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and

thrilling tone.

“For it is not as a flower whose scent with the drop

ping leaves expires, And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath

should quench its fires;

It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of

the sword, It hath left upon our desert sands a light in blessings

pour'd.

“ The founts, the many gushing founts, which to the

wild ye gave,

Of you, my chiefs, shall sing aloud, as they pour a

joyous wave! And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye

hung the pilgrim's way, Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises

on the day.

“ The very walls your bounty rear'd for the stran

ger's homeless head, Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious

dead! Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where

lute and cittern rung, And the serpent in your palaces lie coil'd amidst its

young

“It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splen

dour sees— I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and to

the breeze! I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the

bright and fair, And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs,

are there!"

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