"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 princely 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 heart

Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart?

"It shall not be !-a thousand tongues, though human

voice were still,

With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall

fill;

The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wandering

seeds are sown,

And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and thrilling tone.

"For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping 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 pour'd.

"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

the day.

"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 coil'd amidst its

young.

"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
O'er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a thought-

Oh! many a sudden and remorseful thought

Of his youth's once-lov'd friends, the martyr'd race, O'erflow'd his softening heart." Live, live!" he

cried,

"Thou faithful unto death! live on, and still

Speak of thy lords: they were a princely band!”

THE SPANISH CHAPEL.*

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.
MOORE.

I MADE a mountain-brook my guide,
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wander'd on its grassy side,

Far from the homes of men.

* Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Recollections of the Peninsula.