Back with the dust of her son she came,

When her voice had kindled that lightning flame;

She came in the might of a queenly foe,

Banner, and javelin, and bended bow;
But a deeper power on her forehead sate-
There sought the warrior his star of fate;
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line
Was hail'd as a spirit and a sign,

And the faintest tone from her lip was caught,
As a Sybil's breath of prophetic thought,

Vain, bitter glory!-the gift of grief,
That lights up vengeance to find relief,
Transient and faithless!-it cannot fill
So the deep void of the heart, nor still
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die!

Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown,
As a king in death might reject his crown;

Slowly the strength of the walls gave way-
She wither'd faster from day to day.

All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain,
To stay the flight of her soul were vain;
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn
The frail dust ne'er for such conflicts born,
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come
For its fearful rushing thro' darkness home.

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride,
As on that eve when the fair boy died;
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell;
She spoke, and her voice in its dying tone
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown.
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle song,

Strange midst the din of a warrior throng,

A song of the time when her boy's young cheek Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber 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, 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!

2

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.

-There is but one place in the world.

Thither where he lies buried!

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*

*

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,

Childe Harold.

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