Page:Poets of John Company.djvu/98

76

Thy mighty father joyfully
 * Look'd from his throne on high;

He mark'd his spirit live in thee,
 * He smiled to see thee die;

To see thy sabre's last faint sweep
 * Tinged with a foeman's gore;

To see thee sink to the hero's sleep,
 * With thy red wounds all before.

The faithful, in their emerald bowers
 * The toobah-tree beneath,

Have twined thee of unfading flowers,
 * The martyr's glorious wreath;

And dark-eyed girls of Paradise,
 * Their jewell'd kerchiefs wave,

To welcome to their crystal skies
 * The Sultan of the brave.

I sit beside my lonely hearth.
 * Long years of toil and exile past.

My life is in its twilight path,
 * Still I have reached my home at last;

But other hands now cull its flowers,
 * But other footsteps tread its floor,

That clock still chimes the silver hours,
 * But those who heard it hear no more.

I am a stranger in my hall,
 * The hearts which made it glad are cold.

Young voices answer to my call,
 * But not the tones I loved of old;

With happy looks they bid me tell
 * Some story of the days gone by.

Or speak of those I loved so well,
 * I can but answer with a sigh.