Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/105

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And these are not the halls, wherein my voice First pour'd those gladdening strains.

Alas! thy heart (I see it well) doth sicken for the pure Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent-streams Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been Within these walls thus suddenly begirt, Thou shouldst have track'd ere now, with step as light, Their wild wood-paths.

I would not but have shared These hours of woe and peril, tho' the deep And solemn feelings wakening at their voice, Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild O' th' summer-forest, filling earth and heaven With its own awful music.—And 'tis well! Should not a hero's child be train'd to hear The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look In the fix'd face of Death without dismay?