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THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.
Speak not of victory!—in the name
There is too much of woe!
Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame—
Call me back his whose graceful head is low.
Speak not of victory!—from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls,
Must sink ere long—I had but him—but one!
Within the dwelling of my sires
The hearths will soon be cold,
With me must die the beacon-fires
That stream'd at midnight from the mountain-hold.
And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me,
And is there but for stately youth a grave?
