Page:Records of Woman.pdf/107

Rh

When dust to dust was given:—and Aymer slept Beneath the drooping banners of his line, Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine: So the sad rite was clos'd.—The sculptor gave Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave, And the pale image of a youth, arrayed As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid In slumber on his shield.—Then all was done, All still, around the dead.—His name was heard. Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were stirr'd   By some old song, or tale of battle won, Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; And with the brethren of his fields, the feast Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceas'd