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But the warrior-bands in their places are given,
Like the forest struck down by the red bolts of heaven.
Pale and cold lie thy daughters o'er valley and heath,
Or weep, in their shame, those who slumber in death!
Oh! whence came the ruin that swept to the grave
The graces of beauty and strength of the brave,
And crushed in destruction's most merciless hour,
The pride of the fortress and bloom of the bower.
'Twas not the fierce foe, in his valour that came
To fight, breast to breast, for dominion or fame—
Gold purchased the triumph-the traitors' curst hand
Threw open to tyrants the gates of the land,
And then did the dark hordes, who fled from the brave,
When their banners were broken on mountain and wave,
Rush on to revenge, like the demons of wrath,
With a desert of ashes and blood round their path.
But worthy their fathers, their cause and their name,
Ipsara! thy children died true to their fame;
Like martyrs of freedom they bled in their place,
Still clasping their foes in a fatal embrace.
Ipsarathy glory is changed into gloom,
And ocean's green Eden is now one wide tomb;
But thy spirit shall live over mountain and flood,
Till the trophies of despots are dashed in their blood !
Farewell, my gentle harp, farewell!
Thy task will soon be done;
And she who loved thy lonely spell
Shall, like its tones, be gone-
Gone to the place where mortal pain
Pursues the weary heart in vain.
I shed no tears-light passes by
pang that melts in, tears-
The stricken bosom that can sigh
No mortal arrow bears
When comes the soul's true agony,
The lip is hushed and calm the eye..
And mine has come !-no more I weep-
No longer passion's slave;
My sleep must be the unwaking sleep,
My bed must be the grave:
Through my wild brain no more shall move
Or fear, or hope, or joy, or love.
Though time hath not wreathed
My temples with snow,
Though age hath not breathed
A spell o'er my brow,
Yet care's withered fingers
Press on me with pain;
The fleeting pulse lingers,
And lingers in vain.
The eyes which behold thee,
Their brightness is flown;
The arms which enfold thee
Enfeebled are grown :
And friendship hath left me,
By fortune estranged;
All, all is bereft me,—
For thou, too, art changed!
Yes, dark ills have clouded
The dawning in tears;
My ripening years:
Life's path, wild and dreary,
Draws nigh to its close ;-
Heart-broken and weary
I sigh for repose.
The world shall caress thee
When I cease to be;
And suns rise to bless thee
Which smile not for me:
And hearts shall adore thee,
And bend at thy shrine;
But none bow before thee
So truly as mine.
And where is he? Not by the side
Of her whose wants he loved to tend;
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,
Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend;
That form beloved he marks no more,
Those scenes admired no more shall see;
Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair ;-but where is he?
No, no; the radiance is not dim,
That used to gild his favourite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still :
But, ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his gardens be,
The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, where is he'
His was the pomp, the crowded hall,
But where is now this proud display! : His riches, honours, pleasures, all
Desire could frame; but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea, Surrounded by admiring bands,
Seemed proudly strong-and where is he?
The churchyard bears an added stone,
The fireside shows a vacant chair;
Here sadness, dwells, and weeps alone,
And death displays his banner there :