Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1837.pdf/18

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Yet his laurel wants a leaf. There he stands, sad, silent, lonely; For his hope is vain: He has reached that river only To return again. Mournful bends the matchless chief; He—the earth's unrivalled one— He must leave his task undone.

Far behind the camp lies sleeping— Gods! how can they sleep, Pale fear o'er their slumbers creeping, With a world to weep? With a victory to win. There they lie in craven slumber, By their murmurs won— Must their earthly weakness cumber Jove's immortal son? From the ardent fire within, Is there no impelling ray To excite their onward way?

No! beside that moonlit river Stands the soldier-king, While he hears the night-wind shiver With a weary wing— With a weary sound to hear. By the numerous shadows broken On the river's brim— From the mirror'd stars a token That his star is dim— Changed and sullen they appear. To a great and fix'd despair All things fate and omen are.

Far away the plains are spreading Various, dark and vast— Where a thousand tombs are shading Memories from the past— He must leave them still unknown. All the world's ancestral learning— Secrets strange and old— Early wisdom's dark discerning Must remain untold. Mighty is the hope o'erthrown— Mighty was the enterprise Which upon that moment dies.

With the moonlight on them sleeping Stands each stately palm, Like to ancient warriors keeping Vigil stern and calm O'er a prostrate world below. Sudden from beneath their shadow Forth a serpent springs, O'er the sands, as o'er a meadow, Winding in dark rings. Stately doth it glide, and slow Like an omen in a dream, Does that giant serpent seem.