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THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.
O good old man ! how well in thee appears
As You Like It.
Fall’n was the House of Giafar; and its name,
'Twas desolate Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceas’d; The lights, the perfumes, and the genii-tales, Had ceas’d; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice Was there the fountain's; through these eastern courts, Over the broken marble and the grass, Its low, clear music shedding mournfully.
And still another voice ;-an aged man,
Held still unbroken converse. He had been
“ 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 prince
ly 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 heartOh! must the music of that name with him from earth
“ It shall not be a thousand tongues, though human
voice were still, With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wandering
seeds are sown, And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and
“ 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
“ The founts, the many gushing founts, which to the
wild ye gave, Of you, my chiefs, shall sing aloud, as they pour a joy
ous 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