Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/50

LXXXVI.

Woe, shame and woe!—A chief, a warrior flies,
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale!
—Oh God! that nature's passing agonies,
Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, should prevail!
Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail,
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son^20[1]!
Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail!
—But there are tortures which thou canst not shun,

The spirit is their prey;—thy pangs are but begun!

LXXXVII.

Oh! happy, in their homes, the noble dead!
The seal is set on their majestic fame;
Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed,
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name!
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame
Long glorious years; from many a lofty stem
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow tame,
And stars drop, fading, from the diadem;

But the bright past is theirs—there is no change for them!