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THE TOMB OF CYRUS.
A voice from stately Babylon, a mourner's rising
cry, | And Lydia's marble palaces give back their deep
reply ; And like the sounds of distant winds o'er ocean's
billows sent, Ecbatana, thy storied walls send forth the wild
THE MORNING-GLORY. We wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath
So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say, “She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they.” So always from that happy time
We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem,
For sure as morning came,
To catch the first faint ray,
And opens to the day.
Their airy cups of blue,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.
For he, the dreaded arbiter, a dawning empire's
trust, The eagle child of victory, the great, the wise, the
just, Assyria’s famed and conquering sword, and Media's
regal strength, Hath bowed his head to earth beneath a mightier
hand at length.
And darkly through a sorrowing land Euphrates
winds along, And Cydnus with its silver wave hath heard the
funeral song; And through the wide and sultry East, and through
the frozen North, The tabret and the harp are hushed, - the wail of
grief goes forth.
There is a solitary tomb, with rankling weeds o'er
grown, A single palm bends mournfully beside the mould
ering stone Amidst whose leaves the passing breeze with fit
ful gust and slow Seems sighing forth a feeble dirge for him who
sleeps below. Beside, its sparkling drops of foam a desert foun
tain showers; And, floating calm, the lotus wreathes its red and
scented flowers, Here lurks the mountain fox unseen beside the
vulture's nest; And steals the wild hyena forth, in lone and silent
quest. Is this deserted resting-place the couch of fallen
might? And ends the path of glory thus, and fame's in
spiring light? Chief of a progeny of kings renowned and feared
afar, Howisthy boasted name forgot, and dimmed thine
honor's star! Approach, — what saith the graven verse ? “Alas
for human pride ! Dominion's envied gifts were mine, nor carth
her praise denied. Thou traveller, if a suppliant's voice find echo in
thy breast 0, envy not the little dust that hides my mortal
Remote from public road or dwelling,
HELVELLYN. A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks ; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green. The dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy, — With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry; Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. What is the creature doing here ? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
HELVELLYN. [In the spring of 1805 a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months af. terwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.] I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed
misty and wide :
All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was And more stately thy couch by this desert lake yelling,
lying, And starting around me the echoes replied. Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, On the right, Striden Edge round the Red Tarn With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, was bending,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending
SIR WALTER SCOTT. One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
CEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS
FATHER. Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain
[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church heather,
of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Caur de Lion, who Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly
reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the decay,
means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.] Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless
TORCHES were blazing clear, clay.
Hymns pealing deep and slow, Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, Where a king lay stately on his bier For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
In the church of Fontevraud. The much-loved remains of her master defended,
Banners of battle o'er him hung, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
And warriors slept beneath,
| And light, as noon's broad light was flung How long didst thou think that his silence was
On the settled face of death. slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft
On the settled face of death didst thou start ?
A strong and ruddy glare, How many long days and long nights didst thout
Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there; number Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? |
the hoort | As if each deeply furrowed trace And, 0, was it meet that- no requiem read |
Of earthly years to show,
** | Alas! that sceptred mortal's race o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore
Had surely closed in woe ! him,
The marble floor was swept And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before
By many a long dark stole, him
As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart ? | **
Sang mass for the parted soul;
And solemn were the strains they poured When a prince to the fate of the Peasant has
Through the stillness of the night, yielded,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted
And the silent king in sight. hall, With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, There was heard a heavy clang,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : As of steel-girt men the tread, Through the courts, at deep midnight, the And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang torches are gleaming;
With a sounding thrill of dread ;
As, by the torch's flame,
With a mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look, But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
An eagle glance and clear ; To lay down thy head like the meek mountain But his proud heart through its breastplate shook lamb,
When he stood beside the bier ! When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge He stood there still with a drooping brow, in stature,
And clasped hands o'er it raised ;And draws his last sob by the side of his For his father lay before him low, dam.
. It was Caur de Lion gazed !
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie, How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!”
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast; But there's more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppressed !
Men held their breath in awe,
And he recked not that they saw.
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
He looked upon the dead,
And sorrow seemed to lie,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
And the heavy hand of clay,
Gave his soul's passion way.
(Bernardo del Carpio, a Spanish warrior and grandee, hating made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, declared war against King Alphonso of Asturias. Being successful, the king agreed to terins by which he rendered up his prisoner to Bernardo, in exchange for the castle of Carpio and the captives confined therein. When the warrior pressed forward to greet his father, whom he had not seen for many years, he found a corpse on horseback.]
“O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep ? Speak to me, father ! once again,
I weep, — behold, I weep ! Alas ! my guilty pride and ire !
Were but this work undone, I would give England's crown, my sire !
To hear thee bless thy son.
The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed
his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-im
prisoned sire : “I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my
captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! O, break my father's chain ! "
II. “Rise / rise ! even now thy father comes, a ran
somed man this day ! Mount thy good horse ; and thou and I will meet
him on his way. Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on
his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's
“Speak to me! mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirred ! Hear me, but hear me !- father, chief,
My king! I must be heard ! Hushed, hushed, - how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not? When was it thus, woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
“Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright! And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white ! I bore thee down, high heart !*at last,
No longer couldst thou strive ;0, for one moment of the past
To kneel and say, — 'Forgive !!
And, lo, from far, as on they pressed, there came
a glittering band, With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader
in the land : “Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very
truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see.
IV. His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved,
his cheek's hué came and went ; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and
there, dismounting, bent ; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand
he took, — What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit
“ Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne ere seen ;
Of all, the stateliest mien ;
In war, the bravest heart, O, ever the renowned and loved
Thou wert, — and there thou art !
“Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be !-The times I've sported at thy side,
And climbed thy parent knee !
That hand was cold, — a frozen thing, — it
dropped from his like lead ! He looked up to the face above, — the face was
of the dead !
A plume waved o'er the noble brow, – the brow | The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, – give was fixed and white ;
answer, where are they? He met, at last, his father's eyes, – but in them If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life was no sight!
through this cold clay; vi. Up from the ground he sprang and gazed ; but ... who could paint that gaze?
“Into these glassy eyes put light ;- be still! They hushed their very hearts that saw its hor
keep down thine ire ! ror and amaze:
Bid these white lips a blessing speak, – this earth They might have chained him, as before that stony.
is not my sire : form he stood;
Give me back him for whom I strove, —- forwhom For the power was stricken from his arm, and
my blood was shed. from his lip the blood.
Thou canst not ? - and a king !- his dust be
mountains on thy head !” VII. “Father !” at length, he murmured low, and wept like childhood then :
He loosed the steed, -- his slack hand fell ; upon Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of the silent face warlike men !
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his from that sad place. young renown;
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in He flung his falchion from his side, and in the martial strain : dust sat down.
His banner led the spears no more amidst the
hills of Spain. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his
darkly mournful brow, “No more, there is no more," he said, “to lift THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.
the sword for now; My king is false, - my hope betrayed ! My fa THERE was music on the midnight: ther, — O the worth,
From a royal fane it rolled,
Sternly and slowly tolled.
Strange was their mingling in the sky, “I thought to stand where banners waved, my
It hushed the listener's breath;
For the music spoke of triumph high, sire, beside thee, yet ; I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's
The lonely bell, of death. free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then ; for
There was hurrying through the midnight,
A sound of many feet ; thee my fields were won ;
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though
Along the shadowy street : thou hadst no son!”.
And softer, fainter, grew their tread
As it neared the minster gate, Then, starting from the ground once more, he
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed seized the monarch's rein,
From a scene of royal state. Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;
Full glowed the strong red radiance And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rear
In the centre of the nave, ing war-horse led,
Where the folds of a purple canopy And sternly set them face to face, — the king be
Swept down in many a wave ; · fore the dead :
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom,
For something lay midst their fretted gold “Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's Like a shadow of the tomb.
hand to kiss ? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell! And within that rich pavilion, me what is this?
High on a glittering throne,