Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 11, Page 444
Ballad,
FROM A MANUSCRIPT POEM.
The Spanish Maiden's Grave.
Why is the Spanish maiden's grave
So far from her own bright land?
The sunny flowers that o'er it wave
Were sown by no kindred hand.
'Tis not the orange-bough that sends
Its breath on the sultry air;
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends
To the breeze of evening there:
But the rose of Sharon's eastern bloom
O'er the desart's slumberer fades;
And none but strangers pass the tomb
Which the palm of Judah shades.
And why hath sculpture, on the stone
Which guards that place of rest,
Blent with the cross, o'er a grave unknown,
A helm, a sword, a crest?
These are the trophies of a chief,
A lord of the axe and spear!
Some broken flower, some faded leaf,
Should mark a maiden's bier!
Scorn not her tomb–deny not her
The emblems of the brave!
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O'er that forsaken sepulchre
Banner and plume might wave.
She bound the steel, in battle tried,
Her woman's heart above,
And stood with brave men, side by side,
In the strength and faith of love.
That strength prevail'd, that faith was blest!
True was the javelin thrown;
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast,
She made its sheath her own:
And there she won, where heroes fell
In arms for the holy shrine,
A death which sav'd what she lov’d so well,
And a grave in Palestine.
And let the rose of Sharon spread
Its breast to the silent air,
And the palm of Judah lift its head
Green and immortal there!
And let yon grey stone, undefaced,
With its trophy mark the scene,
Telling the pilgrim of the waste
Where love and death have been!
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