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KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.
57
And the conquerors fill'd the wine-cup high, after years of bright blood shed;
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the triumph, wail'd the dead.
He look'd down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below,
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets,—and a gloom came o'er his brow:
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal's tone;
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.
And he cried, "Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!
But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?
C 2
