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, tho' the spirit pass'd,
That stay'd not for victory's voice at last;
When the day was won for the martyr-dead,
For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed.

Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed;

Free swept the flame thro' the idol-fanes,

And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior-veins,
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay,

Like the panther leapt on its flying prey,

Till a city of ruin begirt the shade,

Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid.

Palace and tower on that plain were left,
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft;
The wild vine mantled the stately square,
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair,
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung--
This was the work of one deep heart wrung!

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.

-There is but one place in the world.
Thither where he lies buried!

*

*

*

There, there is all that still remains of him,
That single spot is the whole earth to me.
COLERIDGE'S Wallenstein.

Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.

THERE went a warrior's funeral thro' the night,

A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light

Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown

From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,

Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof's tread

Childe Harold.

In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains pass'd; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,

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,

Thro' 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 reached the lone

Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom

Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shuddered thro' the pile,
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent
Round the De Coucis' antique monument,

When dust to dust was given :--and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine :
So the sad rite was clos'd.-The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave,
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid

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 ceas'd