Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1834.pdf/20

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I thought upon the lonely isle* Where sleeps the lion-king the while, Who looked on death, yet paused to die Till comraded by Victory. And he, fire noblest of my line, Whose tomb is now the warrior's shrine, (Where I were well content to be, So that such fame might live with me.) The light of peace, the storm of war, Lord of the earth, our proud Akbar.† "What though our passing day but be A bubble on eternity; Small though the circle is, yet still ’Tis ours to colour at our will. Mine be that consciousness of life Which has its energies from strife, Which lives its utmost, knows its power, Claims from the mind its utmost dower— With fiery pulse, and ready hand, That wills, and willing wins command— That boldly takes from earth its best— To whom the grave can be but rest. Mine the fierce free existence spent Mid meeting ranks and armed tent:— Save the few moments which I steal At thy beloved feet to kneel— And own the warrior's wild career Has no such joy as waits him here— When all that hope can dream is hung Upon the music of thy tongue. Ah! never is that cherished face Banished from its accustomed place— It shines upon my weariest night It leads me on in thickest fight: