Thine eye's last light was mine-The soul that shone Thy voice-its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone But once, oh! answer me ! In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep, When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep Spirit! then answer me! By the remembrance of our blended prayer; The grave is silent:- and the far-off sky, What voice has Earth? - Hear, pity, speak, mine own! IVAN THE CZAR. He sat in silence on the ground, Lonely, though princes girt him round, He had cast his jewell'd sabre, That many a field had won, To the earth beside his youthful dead With a robe of ermine for its bed, And a sad and solemn beauty On the pallid face came down, Which the Lord of nations mutely watch'd, In the dust, with his renown. Low tones, at last, of woe and fear How then the proud man spoke ! The voice that through the combat Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, "There is no crimson on thy cheek, I call thee, and thou dost not speak - And fearful things are whispering That I the deed have done For the honor of thy father's name, "Well might I know death's hue and mien, But on thine aspect, boy! What, till this moment, have I seen Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou wert to battle, And bravest there of all How could I think a warrior's frame Thus like a flower should fall? "I will not bear that still cold look All, save this calm, from thee! Lift brightly up, and proudly, Once more thy kindred eyes! Hath my word lost its power on earth? "Didst thou not know I loved thee well? Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit! The secrets of the folded heart That seeem'd to thee so stern. "Thou wert the first, the first, fair child, Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled I rear'd thee as an eagle, To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, 66 Lay down my warlike banners here, And bury my red sword and spear, ye answer not And thus his wild lament was pour'd Through the dark resounding night, In every wind that sigh'd; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank Humbly the conqueror died. THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER. THERE were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish'd city's halls, As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls; And the conquerors filled the wine cup high, after years of bright blood shed; But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wail'd the dead. He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below, The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, and a gloom came o'er his brow: The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal's tone; But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone. And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea! But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee? -I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll, And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is mournful to my soul. 66 My brother! oh! my brother! thou art gone, and brave, And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave, |