ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY. Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow Oh! pause upon the deep! That I may gaze yet once, once more, "I see the laurels fling back showers Let my life part from that bright shore "A fatal gift hath been thy dower, Lord of the Lyre! to me; With song and wreath from bower to bower, Now, wasted by the inborn fire, The ray that lit the incense-pyre, Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. -O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go, "Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep One tender accent, low and deep, 371 Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell. ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY. "Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, Our virgins dance beneath the shade."-Byron. Io! they come, they come! Garlands for every shrine! Strike lyres to greet them home! Swell, swell the Dorian flute The sons of victory. With the offering of bright blood Sing it where olives wave, And the spears that light the deep! Where the lords of battle sweep! Each hath brought back his shield Who murmur'd of the dead? Hush, boding voice! We know That many a shining head Breathe not those names to-day! They shall have their praise erelong, And a power all hearts to sway, But now shed flowers, pour wine, NAPLES. A SONG OF THE SYREN. "Then gentle winds arose, With many a mingled close Of wild Eolian sound and mountain odor keen Where the clear Baian ocean Welters with air-like motion Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.' Shelley STILL is the Syren warbling on thy shore, THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. Still with a dreamy sense of ecstasy Fills thy soft Summer air:—and while my glance Queen of the Summer sea. "Favor'd and crown'd of the earth and sky! Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower. "Let the wine flow in thy marble halls! Forget that thou art not free!" So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 373 The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly whilst reconnoitering a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He had left his regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and was sud denly surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with instant death if he made the least sign of their vicinity. With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice and, calling aloud "A moi, Auvergne! ces sont les ennemis !" fell, pierced with mortal blows.] ALONE through gloomy forest-shades A soldier went by night; No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, Yet on his vigil's midnight round Uncheck'd by aught of boding sound VOL. II.-32 Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? His father's hall, his mother's bower, -Hush! hark!-did stealing steps go by, Hark, yet again!--and from his hand, The sound that warns thy comrades nigh -Still, at the bayonet's point he stood, And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!" The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call— THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. AT CAEN IN NORMANDY-1087. At the day appointed for the king's interment, Prince Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude of clergy and peo ple, assembled in the Church of St. Stephen, which the conqueror had founded. The mass had been performed, the corpse was place' on the bier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd exclaimed,--He whom you have praised was a robber. The very land on which you stand is mine. By violence he took it from my father; and, in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.' The speaker was Asceline Fitz Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, sought reparation from the justice of William. After some debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty shillings for the grave, and promised that he should receive the full value of his land. The ceremony was then continued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of stone."]-Lingard, vol. ii. p. 98. LOWLY upon his bier The royal conqueror lay; THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 375 Baron and chief stood near, Silent in war-array. Down the long minster's aisle Crowds mutely gazing stream'd, Through mists of incense gleam'd. They lower'd him, with the sound "By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine; By the house e'en here o'erthrown, "Will my sire's unransom'd field, O'er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield Soft slumbers in the grave? "The tree before him fell Which we cherish'd many a year. But its deep root yet shall swell, And heave against his bier. "The land that I have till'd Hath yet its brooding breast "Each pillar's massy bed Hath been wet by weeping eyes Away! bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries.” -Shame glow'd on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, |