308
FRAGMENTS.
He stood alone, the last of his race,
With the cold wide world for his dwelling-place.
The home of his fathers gone to decay,—
All but their memory was pass'd away;
No one to welcome, no one to share
The laurel he no more was proud to wear:
He came in the pride of his war success
But to weep over very desolateness.
They pointed him to a barren plain
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain;
They showed him the lowly grave, where slept
The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept;
But they could not show him one living thing
To which his withered heart could cling....
Amid the warriors of Palestine
Is one, the first in the battle-line;
