HIS DEATH-BED.
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No moan was heard through the towers of state,
No weeper's aspect seen,
But by the couch Ximena sate,
With pale, yet stedfast mien4[1].
Stillness was round the leader's bed,
Warriors stood mournful nigh,
And banners, o'er his glorious head,
Were drooping heavily.
And feeble grew the conquering hand,
And cold the valiant breast;
—He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.
What said the Ruler of the field?
—His voice is faint and low;
The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield
Hath louder accents now.
"Raise ye no cry, and let no moan
Be made when I depart;
The Moor must hear no dirge's tone,
Be ye of mighty heart!
