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They lower'd bim, with the sound
Of requiems, to repose, When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose :
“Forbear, forbear!” it cried,
“In the holiest name forbear! He hath conquer'd regions wide,
But he shall not slumber there.
“ By the violated hearth
Which made way for yon proud shrine, By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne to me and mine;
“By the home ev'n here o'erthrown,
On my children's native spot,Hence! with his dark renown
Cumber our birth-place not !
“Will my sire's unransom'd field
O’er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield
Soft slumber in the grave ?
6. The tree before him fell
Which we cherish'd many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell
And heave against his bier.
6. The land that I have tillid,
Hath yet its brooding breast With my home's white ashes fillid
And it shall not give him rest.
“ Here each proud column's bed
Hath been wet by weeping eyes, Hence! and bestow your dead
Where no wrong against him cries !"
Shame glow'd on each dark face
Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place
For their leader's dust e'en then.
A little earth for him
Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant's tale could dim
The name, a nation's star!
One deep voice thus arose
From a heart which wrongs had rivenOh! who shall number those
That were but heard in Heaven ? *
* For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remarkable circumstances which attended the obsequies of William the Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Fran. çais, vol. iv. p. 480.
THE SOUND OF THE SEA.
Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea,
For ever and the same !
Whose thunders nought can tame.
Oh! many a glorious voice is gone,
From the rich bowers of earth, And hush'd is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.
The Dorian Alute that sigh'd of yore
Along thy wave, is still ;
On Zion's awful hill.
And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord
That breath'd the mystic tone, And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs pour’d,
Are with her eagles flown.
And mute the Moorish horn, that rang
O’er stream and mountain free,
Hath died in Galilee.
But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.
Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky,
In that one harmony.
It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;
Ev'n as when first it roll’d.
Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where sceptred cities rose !
-So may our hearts repose.