But a deeper power on her forehead sate-
There sought the warrior his star of fate :
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line
Was hailed as a spirit and a sign,

And the faintest tone from her lip was caught
As a sibyl's breath of prophetic thought.
Vain, bitter glory !—the gift of grief,
That lights up vengeance to find relief,
Transient and faithless! It cannot fill
So the deep void of the heart, nor still
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die !

Sickening she turned from her sad renown, As a king in death might reject his crown. Slowly the strength of the walls gave way— She withered faster from day to day: All the proud sounds of that bannered plain To stay the flight of her soul were vain ; Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn The frail dust, ne'er for such conflicts born, Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come For its fearful rushing through darkness home.

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, As on that eve when the fair boy died: She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell; She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone, Had an echo of feelings that long seemed flown. She murmured a low sweet cradle-song, Strange midst the din of a warrior throngA song of the time when her boy's young cheek

Had glowed on her breast in its slumber meek.

But something which breathed from that mournful strain 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, though the spirit passed, That stayed not for victory's voice at last— When the day was won for the martyr dead, For the broken heart and the bright blood shed. Through the gates of the vanquished the Tartar steed Bore in the avenger with foaming speed;

Free swept the flame through the idol fanes,

And the streams glowed red, as from warrior veins;
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay,
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,
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft;
The wild vine mantled the stately square;
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair,
And the jungle-grass o'er the altar sprung—
This was the work of one deep heart wrung!

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE

"There is but one place in the world

Thither, where he lies buried!

There, there is all that still remains of him;
That single spot is the whole earth to me."
WALLENSTEIN.

"Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.-CHILDE HAROLD.

THERE went a warrior's funeral through 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,
As chieftains passed; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
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,
Through the wood-shadows, moved the nightly train,
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low-

Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain,

Stretched by its broken lance. They reached the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom

Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shuddered through the pile,
Till crested heads at last in silence bent
Round the De Coucis' antique monument,

When dust to dust was given ;-and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine.

So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave;
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed

As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid

In slumber on his shield. Then all was done

All still around the dead. His name was heard
Perchance when wine-cups flowed, and hearts were stirred
By some old song, or tale of battle won

Told round the hearth. But in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side.
Alas! to think of this !—the heart's void place
Filled up so soon !—so like a summer cloud,
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace !—
He lay forgotten in his early shroud.

Forgotten?--not of all! The sunny smile
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle-these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day,
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Through the dim fane soft summer odours breathing,
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Through storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love—a secret love and lowly;
And the rose image all things fleet and fair;
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?

Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush through every season? Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods; but duly still
For years those gorgeous coronals, renewed,
And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even through mid-winter filled the solitude
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!