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 found way. “ 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 depart? “ 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 fill; 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 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 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. |