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With a robe of ermine for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
Through the rich tent made way :
On the pallid face came down, Which the lord of nations mutely watched,
In the dust, with his renown.
Low tones at last of wo and fear
From his full bosom broke ; A mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke ! The voice that through 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,
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done
Look up, look up, my son !
“ Well might I know death's hue and mien,
But on thine aspect, boy!
Save pride and tameless joy ?
And bravest there of all-
Thus like a flower should fall ?
I will not bear that still, cold look
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
All, save this calm, from thee !
Once more thy kindling eyes ! Hath
word lost its power on earth ? 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 hath smild
Like summer on my breast; I rear'd 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,
Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave!
And leave me !-I have conquer'd,
I have slain-my work is done !
Thou too art mute, my son!”
And thus his wild lament was pour'd
Through the dark resounding night,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
In every wind that sigh’d;
Humbly the conqueror died.*
* Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1827.
Thy cheek too swiftly flushes ; o'er thine eye
A Sound of music, from amidst the hills,
* Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the Percy Anecdotes of Imagination.