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-A young fair form, whose nymph-like grace
Accorded well with the Grecian face,

And the eye, in its clear soft darkness meek,
And the lashes that droop'd o'er a pale rose cheek;
And he look'd on that beauty with tender pride-
The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride!

But how stood She, the Forsaken, there, Struck by the lightning of swift despair? Still, as amazed with grief, she stood,

And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood,

And there came from her quivering lip no word—
Only the fall of her lute was heard,

As it dropt from her hand at her rival's feet,
Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet!

What more remaineth? her day was done;
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one!
The light, the vision, the gift of power,
Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour,

Like the rich sound from the shatter'd string,

Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring!

As an eagle struck in his upward flight,

So was her hope from its radiant height,
And her song went with it for evermore,
A gladness taken from sea and shore!

She had moved to the echoing sound of fame-
Silently, silently, died her name!

Silently melted her life away,

As ye have seen a young flower decay,

Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd, expire,

Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fire, Leaving its channel all dry and mute

Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute!

THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.

How weeps yon gallant Band

O'er him their valour could not save!
For the bayonet is red with gore,

And he, the beautiful and brave,

Now sleeps in Egypt's sand.

WILSON.

IN the shadow of the Pyramid
Our brother's grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the Desert's parting sun

A field of death survey'd.

The blood-red sky above us

Was darkening into night,

And the Arab watching silently

Our sad and hurried rite.

The voice of Egypt's river

Came hollow and profound,

And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, Rock'd with a shivery sound:

While the shadow of the Pyramid
Hung o'er the grave we made,

When the battle-day was done,

And the Desert's parting sun

A field of death survey'd.

The fathers of our brother

Were borne to knightly tombs,

With torch-light and with anthem-note,

And many waving plumes:

But he, the last and noblest

Of that high Norman race,

With a few brief words of soldier-love

Was gathered to his place;

In the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his youthful form we laid,

When the battle-day was done,

And the Desert's parting sun

A field of death survey❜d.

But let him, let him slumber

By the old Egyptian wave!

It is well with those who bear their fame

Unsullied to the grave!

When brightest names are breathed on,

When loftiest fall so fast,

We would not call our brother back

On dark days to be cast,

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