Back with the dust of her son she came, When her voice had kindled that lightning flame; She came in the might of a queenly foe, Banner, and javelin, and bended bow; And the faintest tone from her lip was caught, Vain, bitter glory!-the gift of grief, Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown, Slowly the strength of the walls gave way- All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain, The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, Strange midst the din of a warrior throng, A song of the time when her boy's young cheek Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meek; But something which breathed from that mournful strain Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again, And starting as if from a dream, she cried— "Give him proud burial at my side! There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, When the temples are fallen, make there our grave." And the temples fell, tho' the spirit pass'd, Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior-veins, Till a city of ruin begirt the shade, Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. Palace and tower on that plain were left, Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft; 2 THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE. -There is but one place in the world. Thither where he lies buried! * * * There, there is all that still remains of him, COLERIDGE'S Wallenstein. Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert, Childe Harold. THERE went a warrior's funeral thro' the night, A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof's tread |