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He sleeps—but never shall those eyes unclose; 'Twas not my voice that lull'd him to repose, Nor can it break his slumbers.—Dost thou mourn? And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow!"

But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name, When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came Each dark remembrance; by affliction's power Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour, To wake with tenfold strength;—'twas then her eye Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow.

"Away! I dream—oh, how hath sorrow's might Bow'd down my soul, and quench'd its native light, That I should thus forget! and bid thy tear With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier! Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, In the last combat with thy ruthless band? The morn beheld that conflict of despair:— 'Twas then he fell—he fell!—and thou wert there!