 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
OH! SCION OF A ROYAL STOCK.
Oh! scion of a royal stock,
No princes at thy feet now wait;
But thrown amid the battle's shock,
A mourner at proud Emir's gate.
The sound of minstrelsy, not such
As wont to meet thine infant ear,
Where fondest kindness woke the touch,
Is destined now for thee to hear!
No princes at thy feet now wait;
But thrown amid the battle's shock,
A mourner at proud Emir's gate.
The sound of minstrelsy, not such
As wont to meet thine infant ear,
Where fondest kindness woke the touch,
Is destined now for thee to hear!
The timbrel speaks the voice of war,
The clanging cymbal joins the strain;
Alas! sad Princess, how they jar
Upon thy frenzied heart and brain!
For whom these signals—do they warm
Thy breast, frail mourner, are they thine?
Or, do they swell, with wild alarm,
A triumph at thy foeman's shrine?
The clanging cymbal joins the strain;
Alas! sad Princess, how they jar
Upon thy frenzied heart and brain!
122
Thy breast, frail mourner, are they thine?
Or, do they swell, with wild alarm,
A triumph at thy foeman's shrine?
And thou, so lone, whom beauty's smile
Had served to warm a rival cheek,
With hands clasp'd on thy breast, the while,
And eye so humble, wild, yet meek.
Thou, whose each wish was understood,
Ere yet expression warm'd thy tongue!
Ah! where are they, who fondly sued,
For love, that's now with anguish wrung?
Had served to warm a rival cheek,
With hands clasp'd on thy breast, the while,
And eye so humble, wild, yet meek.
Thou, whose each wish was understood,
Ere yet expression warm'd thy tongue!
Ah! where are they, who fondly sued,
For love, that's now with anguish wrung?
The battle rages—see they fly,
The few who live, the field of Fate—
Now does she lift her speaking eye,
Where all that lives, is desolate.
But there is one who leaves the field,
Surrounded by the conq'ring foe;
His soul and sword disdain to yield,
And death and slaughter urge his blow!
The few who live, the field of Fate—
Now does she lift her speaking eye,
Where all that lives, is desolate.
But there is one who leaves the field,
Surrounded by the conq'ring foe;
His soul and sword disdain to yield,
And death and slaughter urge his blow!
And not a living victim he
Survivor, not in galling chains!
One foe but less, and he were free—
Now is he free from all his veins.
His bosom bleeds at every stroke,
Yet still his good sword waves on high;
'Till, as the foremost rank is broke,
He dies, even midst his victory.
Survivor, not in galling chains!
One foe but less, and he were free—
Now is he free from all his veins.
His bosom bleeds at every stroke,
Yet still his good sword waves on high;
'Till, as the foremost rank is broke,
He dies, even midst his victory.
123
Oh! scion of a royal stock,
Thy bosom's earliest hope is o'er,
That chieftain, known amid the shock,
Has fall'n, and thou may'st smile no more.
Thy young heart's richest dream is fled,
Which scarcely known, was felt too well;
Thy first hope number'd with the dead,
What other hope with thee shall dwell?
Thy bosom's earliest hope is o'er,
That chieftain, known amid the shock,
Has fall'n, and thou may'st smile no more.
Thy young heart's richest dream is fled,
Which scarcely known, was felt too well;
Thy first hope number'd with the dead,
What other hope with thee shall dwell?
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