And that last thought on him thou could'st not save Sufficed to kill; Burst forth in one wild cry- and all was still. was thy first! Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave! Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, - Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, XXVIII. Within the place of thousand tombs the slightest gale "Where?" (1) (1) "I came to the place of my birth, and cried,' The friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo answered, Where are they?" From an Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader: it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of "the Pleasures of Memory;" a poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous; but to whose pages all will be delighted to recur. 3 Might whirl the leaves on high; And yet, though storms and blight assail, in vain To-morrow sees it bloom again ! For well may maids of Helle deem To it the livelong night there sings A bird unseen — - but not remote : But soft as harp that Houri strings It were the Bulbul; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain ; For they who listen cannot leave The spot, but linger there and grieve, As if they loved in vain! And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, They scarce can bear the morn to break And longer yet would weep and wake, But when the day-blush bursts from high And some have been who could believe, Yet harsh be they that blame,) That note so piercing and profound For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) and many other instances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral with cages full of the kind; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letters. 'T is from her cypress summit heard, And hence extended by the billow, "T is named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!" |