Page:Records of Woman.pdf/260

252

Thro' its proud floating folds:—'twas not the brook, Singing in secret thro' its grassy glen— A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook The burning air.—Like clouds when winds are high, O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out, Sent thro' an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue; And harps were there—I heard their sounding strings, As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings.— The bright masque faded.—Unto life's worn track, What call'd me from its flood of glory, back? A voice of happy childhood!—and they pass'd, Banner, and harp, and Paynim trumpet's blast; Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone, My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone.