Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1834.pdf/19



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A warrior proud, whose crested head Bends mournful o’er the recent dead, And shadows deep athwart the plain Usurp the silver moonbeam’s reign; For every ruined building cast Shadows, like memories of the past. And not a sound the wind brought nigh, Save the far jackal’s wailing cry, And that came from the field now red With the fierce banquet I had spread: Accursed and unnatural feast, For worm, and fly, and bird, and beast; While round me earth and heaven recorded The folly of life’s desperate game, And the cold justice still awarded By time, which makes all lots the same. Slayer or slain, it matters not, We struggle, perish, are forgot! The earth grows green above the gone, And the calm heaven looks sternly on. ’Twas folly this—the gloomy night Fled before morning's orient light; City and river owned its power, And I, too, gladdened with the hour; I saw my own far tents extend My own proud crescent o’er them bend; I heard the trumpet’s glorious voice Summon the warriors of my choice. Again impatient on to lead, I sprang upon my raven steed, Again I felt my father’s blood Pour through my veins its burning flood. My scimetar around I swung, Forth to the air its lightning sprung, A beautiful and fiery light, The meteor of the coming fight.

"I turned from each forgotten grave To others, which the name they bear   Will long from old oblivion save The heroes of the race I share.