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Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,
There were tears that fell from manly eyes,
There was woman's gentler weeping, And the wailing of age and infant cries, O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.
He had left his home in his spirit's pride,
He came again in the light of his fame,
But the cloud of strife came upon the sky,
And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
He came again,—but an altered man,
He spoke of victory,-spoke of cheer;
These are words that are vainly spoken To the childless mother, or orphan's ear, Or the widow whose heart is broken.
A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,
18. THE FIELD OF GILBOA.
THE Sun of the morning looked forth from his throne,
And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.
And there lay the husband that lately was prest
To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy; But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody.
And there lay the son of the widowed and sad,
Who yesterday went from her dwelling for ever; Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had
On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver.
And there came the daughter, the delicate child,
To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild,
To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.
And there came the consort that struggled in vain
To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her; And there came the mother that sunk 'mid the slain,
To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her.
Oh! bloody Gilboa, a curse ever lie
Where the king and his people were slaughtered together; May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither!
19.-A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky,
Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks I hear a voice begin; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,) It sends a peal of hollow groans, Thus speaking from among the bones: “When men my scythe and darts supply, "How great a King of Fears am I !
Time was, like thee, they life possest,
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
And all with sober accent cry,
Think, mortal, what it is to die.
They view me like the last of things;
They make and then they dread my stings. "Fools! if you less provoked your fears, "No more my spectre-form appears. "Death's but a path that must be trod, "If man would ever pass to God: “A port of calms, a state of ease, "From the rough rage of swelling seas.”
20. THE SHIELD.
OH! did you not hear a voice of death?
Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,
Which shrieks on the house of wo all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
To howl and to feed till the glance of light?
'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
See! how the red, red lightning strays,
And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!
Where hangs the shield of this son of death!
That shield is blushing with murderous stains;
Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;
Oft by that yew on the blasted field,
While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield
21.-LOUDHON'S ATTACK.-A HUNGARIAN WAR-SONG.
RISE, ye Croats, fierce and strong,
The vulture, screaming for his food,
Men of Austria, mark around,
And all the streamy shore resounds
Save where Loudhon's eagles fly
On the wings of victory!
22. THE PETIT-MAITRE AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL.
AT Paris, some time since, a murdering man,