Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1833.pdf/82

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HE summer palace of the king, Whose lightest word was enough to bring Every gem and every flower, To light his hall—and to wreath his bower. Can you not fancy the summer-time, Such as it is in a southern clime? Can you not fancy the glorious home, To which the conq’ring monarch would come, When the sabre was sheath’d, and the struggle was done, And the red banner waved for the victory won, And the rudest of sights or of sounds on the gale, Was the fall of a footstep—the wave of a veil?