Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 17 1826.pdf/8



—"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 nursed, 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 joyous 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.