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But something which breathed from that mournful
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,
Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed
Free swept the flame thro' the idol-fanes,
And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior-veins,
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,
THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.
-There is but one place in the world.
There, there is all that still remains of him,
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
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
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
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
When dust to dust was given :--and Aymer slept
In slumber on his shield.—Then all was done,
By some old song, or tale of battle won,
Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceas'd