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But while the old man sang, a mist of tears
Of his youth's once-lov'd friends, the martyr'd race O'erflowed his softening heart.-"Live, live!" he cried,
"Thou faithful unto death! live on, and still
Speak of thy lords; they were a princely band!"
THE SPANISH CHAPEL.*
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes,
I MADE a mountain-brook my guide,
It lured me with a singing tone,
To a green spot of beauty lone,
A haunt for old romance.
* Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the "Recollections of the Peninsula."
A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove
Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
The darkness of the chestnut bough
The bright stream reverently below,
And bore a music all subdued,
For something viewlessly around
In the soft gloom, and whispery sound,
While sending forth a quiet gleam
Across the wood's repose,
And o'er the twilight of the stream,
A pathway to that still retreat
Thro' many a myrtle wound,
And there a sight-how strangely sweet! My steps in wonder bound.
For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
As if to sleep thro' sultry hours,
To sleep?-oh! ne'er on childhood's eye,
Did the warm living slumber lie,
Yet still a tender crimson glow
Its cheek's pure marble dyed"Twas but the light's faint streaming flow
Thro' roses heap'd beside.
I stoop'd-the smooth round arm was chill,
And the bright ringlets hung so still-.
"Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing!
Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
But then a voice came sweet and low-
A woman with a mourner's brow,