Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/223

Rh

Be thou glad! I say, rejoice above thy favour'd child! Joy, for the soldier when his field is fought, Joy, for the peasant when his vintage-task Is closed at eve!—But most of all for her, Who, when her life had changed its glittering robes For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling So heavily around the journeyers on, Cast down its weight—and slept!

Alas! thine eye Is wandering—yet how brightly!—Is this death, Or some high wondrous vision?—Speak, my child! How is it with thee now?

I see it still! 'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high, My father's banner!—Hear'st thou not a sound? The trumpet of Castile?—Praise, praise to Heaven! —Now may the weary rest!—Be still!—Who calls The night so fearful?——[She dies.

No! she is not dead!