Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place Swept by the wind away? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven 7 THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON. I LAY upon the solemn plain And by the funeral mound, Where those who died not there in vain, Their place of sleep had found. "Twas silent where the free blood gush'd, When Persia came array'd— So many a voice had there been hush'd, So many a footstep stay'd. I slumber'd on the lonely spot, I slumber'd-but my rest was not As theirs who lay beneath. For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, They rose the chainless dead All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power, Up from their grassy bed. I saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by Chas'd to the seas, without his shield I saw the Persian fly. I woke the sudden trumpet's blast Call'd to another fight From visions of our glorious past, Who doth not wake in might? TROUBADOUR SONG. THE warrior cross'd the ocean's foam, His voice was heard where javelin showers Pour'd on the steel-clad line; Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers, Her seat beneath the vine. His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by, And again he cross'd the seas; But she had died, as roses die, That perish with a breeze. |