Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/179

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Whose very breathings on the soul erase All record of past love, save the chill sense, Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith, And vain devotedness!—Aye! they that fix Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, Have many a dream to start from!

This is but The wildness and the bitterness of grief, Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its long Impatient conflicts with a mightier power, Which makes all conflict vain. ——Hark! was there not A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond The Moorish tents, and of another tone Than th' Afric horn, Ximena?

Oh, my father! I know that horn too well.—'Tis but the wind, Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep And savage war-note from us, wafting it O'er the far hills.

Alas! this woe must be!