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With a robe of ermine for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
And a sad and solemn beauty
On the pallid face came down, Which the Lord of nations mutely watch'd, In the dust, with his renown.
Low tones at last of wo and fear
A mournful thing it was to hear
The voice that thro' the combat
Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, Burden'd with agony.
"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath,
I call thee, and thou dost not speak-
"Well might I know death's hue and mien,
But on thine aspect, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen,
Save pride and tameless joy?
And bravest there of all-
"I will not bear that still, cold look
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
Once more thy kindling eyes!
I say to thee, arise !
"Didst thou not know I lov'd thee well? Thou didst not! and art gone In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
If but one hour, to learn'
That seem'd to thee so stern.
“ Thou wert the first, the first fair child,
That in mine arms I press'd;
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smil'd Like summer on my breast!
I reared thee as an eagle,
To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee-dead!
Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,
I have slain-my work is done! Whom have I slain ?-ye answer not-Thou too art mute, my son !"
And thus his wild lament was pour'd
Thro' the dark resounding night,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
In every wind that sigh'd;
From the searching stars of heaven he shrankHumbly the conqueror died.*
*Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827.