From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, II And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled ; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young. THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. 1842. As I ride, as I ride Through the desert waste and wide INI As I ride, as I ride, IV As I ride, as I ride, V As I ride, as I ride, INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. I You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : A mile or so away Stood on our storming-day ; Legs wide, arms locked behind, Oppressive with its inind. II Just as perhaps he mused “My plans “ That soar, to earth may fall, “ Let once my army leader Lannes “Waver at yonder wall, —” A rider, bound on bound Until he reached the mound. III Then off there Aung in smiling joy, And held himself erect You hardly could suspect- Scarce any blood came through) Was all but shot in two. IV “Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God's grace “We've got you Ratisbon ! 6 And you “ The Marshal's in the market-place, 'll be there anon “Where I, to heart's desire, Soared up again like fire. V The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes When her bruised eaglet breathes. Touched to the quick, he said : Smiling the boy fell dead. THE LOST LEADER. I Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat - Lost all the others, she lets us devote ; So much was theirs who so little allowed : Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud ! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, | Made him our pattern to live and to die ! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,- they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! II We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence; Son may inspirit us,-not from his lyre ; Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins : let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Never glad confident morning again ! Menace our heart ere we master his own; Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! IN A GONDOLA. He sings. In this my singing. The very night is clinging Above me, whence thy face She spaks. |