In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, Wore man's mute anguish sternly ;--but of one That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow, 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 Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle, Round the De Coucis' antique monument, When dust to dust was given :--and Aymer slept Beneath the drooping banners of his line, So the sad rite was clos'd.-The sculptor gave 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 Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceas'd Mingled with theirs.-Ev'n thus life's rushing tide Filled up so soon!-so like a summer-cloud, And all the music with that young voice dying, And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, 1 And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm. Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring In lone devotedness! One spring-morn rose, And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid-Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose From the fierce noon-a dark-hair'd peasant maid: Who could reveal her story?—That still face Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow, And the curv'd lip, there lingered yet such grace As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm'd the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight?-Her kindred's place Was not amidst the high De Couci race; Yet there her shrine had been !-She grasp'd a wreath The tomb's last garland!-This was love in death! |