Page:Records of Woman.pdf/103

Rh

But something which breathed from that mournful strain Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again, And starting as if from a dream, she cried— "Give him proud burial at my side! There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, When the temples are fallen, make there our grave."

And the temples fell, tho' the spirit pass'd, That stay'd not for victory's voice at last; When the day was won for the martyr-dead, For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed.

Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed Bore in the avenger with foaming speed; Free swept the flame thro' the idol-fanes, And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior-veins, And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, Like the panther leapt on its flying prey,