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“ The very walls your bounty rear'd, for the stranger's
homeless head, Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious
dead ! Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute
and cittern rung, And the serpent in your palaces lie coild amidst its
“ It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendor
sees, I leave your name, in lofty faith, to the skies and to the
breeze! I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright
and fair, And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs,
are there !”
But while the old man sang, a mist of tears
Oh ! many a sudden and remorseful thought
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,
Through a wild Spanish glen,
Far from the homes of men.
* Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Recollections of the Peninsula.
It lured me with a singing tone,
And many a sunny glance, To a green spot of beauty lone, ,
A haunt for old romance.
A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove
Of many an aged tree,
The fawn and forest-bee.
The darkness of the chestnut bough
There on the waters lay, The bright stream reverently below,
Check’d its exulting play;
And bore a music all subdued,
And led a silvery sheen,
Of that rich leafy scene.
For something viewlessly around
Of solemn influence dwelt,
Not to be told, but felt :
While sending forth a quiet gleam
Across the wood's repose,
A lowly chapel rose.
A pathway to that still retreat
Through many a myrtle wound, And there a sight-how strangely sweet!
My steps in wonder bound.
For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
Even at the threshold made,
A young fair child was laid.