Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/108

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Had chill'd their fiery blood;—it is no time For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours, We trod the woodland mazes, when young leaves Were whispering in the gale.—My Father comes— Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade His princely aspect with a thought less high Than his proud duties claim.

My noble lord! Welcome from this day's toil!—It is the hour Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou Free thy mail'd bosom from the corslet's weight, To rest at fall of eve?

There may be rest For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath His vine and olive, he may sit at eve, Watching his children's sport: but unto him Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height,