By song or high recital of their deeds,
Bright solemn shadows of its vanish'd race
To people their own halls: with these alone,
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts
Held still unbroken converse. He had been
Rear'd in this lordly dwelling, and was now

The ivy of its ruins ; unto which

His fading life seem'd bound. Day roll'd on day,
And from that scene the loneliness was fled;
For crowds around the grey-hair'd chronicler
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts
Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze
Wanders thro' forest-branches, and is met
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves,
The spirit of his passionate lament,
As thro' their stricken souls it pass'd, awoke
One echoing murmur.-But this might not be
Under a despot's rule, and summon'd thence,
The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne:
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale,

And with his white lips rigidly compress'd;

Till, in submissive tones, he ask'd to speak

Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine forth.

Was it to sue for grace ?—his burning heart

Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye,

And he was changed!-and thus, in rapid words,

Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than death

found way.

“And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave,

With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave?

What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land?

I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band!

"My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes, that in your halls was nurs'd,

That follow'd you to many a fight, where flash'd your sabres first;

That bore your children in his arms, your name upon

his heart

Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart?

"It shall not be !—a thousand tongues, tho' human voice were still,

With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill;

The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wandering seeds are sown,

And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and thrilling tone.

"For it is not as a flower whose scent with the drop

ping leaves expires,

And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its fires;

It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the sword,

It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in blessings pour'd.

"The founts, the many gushing founts, which to the wild ye gave,

Of you, my chiefs, shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave;

And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim's way,

Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on

the day.

"The very walls your bounty rear'd, for the stranger's homeless head,

Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead!

Tho' the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern rung,

And the serpent in your palaces lie coil'd amidst its young.

"It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendour

sees,

I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and to the breeze!

I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair,

And call the grave a kingly hose, for ye, my chiefs, are there!"