LI.

 Beside him sinks a warrior on his shield,
 Whose history the heart alone must tell!
 Now, dim in eye—he looks, as on the field,
 Where when he fell, his country with him fell.
 Death sickens all his soul, the blood-drops steal
 Slow from his breast, congealing round the wound;
 His strong arm shakes, his chest has lost its swell,
 'Tis his last breath,—his eye-ball glares profound,
His heavy forehead glooms, bends, plunges, to the ground!

LII.

 Yet had the bold barbarian joy; if tears
 For Roman slaughter could rejoice his soul.
 Did he not hear the crashing of the spears?
 When like a midnight tide, his warriors stole
 Around the slumb'ring legions—till the roll
 Of the wild forest-drum awoke the glen;
 And every blow let loose a Roman soul,
 So let them sting the lion in his den;
Chains and the spear are chaff, when Heaven gives hearts to men!

LIII.

 Had not that with'ring lip quaff'd long and deep,
 The cup that vengeance for the patriot fills;
 When swords instinctive from their scabbards leap,
 When the dim forests, and the mighty hills,
 And the lone gushings of the mountain rills,
 All utter to the soul a cry of shame;
 And shame, like drops of molten brass, distils
 On the bare head and bosom of the tame,
Till the whole fetter'd man, heart, blood, and brain, is flame.

LIV.

 Then there were lightnings in that clouded eye,
 And sounds of triumph in that heavy ear;
 Aye, and that icy limb was bounding nigh,
 Tracking the Roman with the bow and spear,
 As through the live-long night the death-march drear
 Pierced the deep forests o'er the slaughter grown;
 Seeking for ancient chief and comrade dear,
 Through wolf-torn graves and haggard piles of bone,
Along the rampart ruins, and marshy trenches strown.

LV.

 And what they sought they found, in wild-weed robes,
 Laid in the sepulchres that thunder ploughs.
 They found the circle, where the thronging globes
 Of German warriors held the night's carouse,
 And groans of death, and Magic's fearful vows
 Startled the moon. Around the altars lay
 The human hecatomb! in ghastly rows,
 The leaders still unmix'd with meaner clay,
Tribune and consul stretch'd in white and wild decay.

LVI.

 But have I still forgot thee, loveliest far
 Of all,—enchanting image of Love's queen?
 Or did I linger but till yon blue star,
 Thy star, should crown thee with its light serene?
 There stands the goddess, by the Grecian seen
 In the mind's lonely, deep idolatry;
 When twilight o'er Cythera's wave of green,
 Drew her rich curtain, and his upturn'd eye
Was burning with the pomps of earth, and sea, and sky.

LVII.

 Then came the dreamer's glorious ecstasy;
 And from the vale of lilies, and the wood
 Blushing with Persian roses, breathed the sigh
 Of more than music; and the spell-bound flood
 Bore on its waveless breast a living cloud,
 Chariots of pearl, and proud sea-horses curb'd,
 That with their breasts the green to silver plough'd;
 And nymphs and tritons lifting trumpets orb'd,
Young Venus! round thy throne, in its own light absorb'd.

LVIII.

 The shore is reach'd, and fear, bewitching fear,
 Is in her bending form, and glancing eye,
 And veiling hand, and timid-turning ear;
 She listens,—'twas but Eve's enamour'd sigh!
 Yet has it heaved her bosom's ivory—
 Yet has it on the shore her footstep spell'd;
 'Tis past.—The rustling rose alone is nigh,—
 She smiles; and in that smile is all reveal'd
The charm, to which so soon the living world shall yield.

LIX.

 There is a vital richness in the air,
 That comes in gushes on this fading hour;
 And, stately France! though Attic taste might stare
 At thy strange garden freaks of fount and bower;
 There lives a little soother, where one flower
 Springs from its turf, a soother meant for man;
 Perhaps to win his heart with silent power
 To fields and peaceful thoughts from cities wan,
Where it so oft “disquieteth itself in vain.”

LX.

 Night's wing is on the east—the clouds repose
 Like weary armies of the firmament,
 Encamp'd beneath their vanes of pearl and rose;
 Till the wind's sudden trumpet through them sent,
 Shakes their pavilions, and their pomps are blent
 In rich confusion. Now the air is fill'd
 With thousand odours, sigh'd by blossoms bent
 In closing beauty, where the dew distill'd
From Evening's airy urns their purple lips has chill'd.