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And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept
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
As You Like It.
Fallen was the House of Giafar; and its name,
'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,
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
“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
“ 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
" 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
“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
“ 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
“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,