Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/157

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Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers Bloom o'er forgotten graves!—But know'st thou aught Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire, And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds Trample the life from out the mighty hearts That ruled the storm so late?—Speak not of death, Till thou hast look'd on such.

I was not born A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, And peasant-men, amidst the lowly vales; Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, And crested knights!—I am of princely race, And, if my father would have heard my suit, I tell thee, infidel! that long ere now, I should have seen how lances meet; and swords Do the field's work.

Boy! know'st thou there are sights A thousand times more fearful?—Men may die Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring To battle-horn and tecbir* .—But not all So pass away in glory. There are those,