Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/126

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Its depths of silent agony, the heart Thy voice of woe doth rend!

Thy heart!—thy heart!—Away! it feels not now! But an hour comes to tame the mighty man Unto the infant's weakness; nor shall Heaven Spare you that bitter chastening!—May you live To be alone, when loneliness doth seem Most heavy to sustain!—For me, my voice Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon With all forgotten sounds; my quiet place Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep, Tho' kings lead armies o'er us, we shall sleep, Wrapt in earth's covering mantle!—you the while Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls, And hear the wild and melancholy winds Moan thro' their drooping banners, never more To wave above your race. Aye, then call up Shadows—dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, But all—all glorious—conquerors, chieftains, kings— To people that cold void!—And when the strength From your right arm hath melted, when the blast Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more A fiery wakening; if at last you pine For the glad voices, and the bounding steps,