They lower'd him, with the sound Of requiems, to repose, When from the throngs around A solemn voice arose : “ Forbear, forbear!” it cried, “In the holiest name forbear ! He hath conquer'd regions wide, But he shall not slumber there. 66 By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine, By the harvests which this earth Hath borne to me and mine; "By the home ev'n here o'erthrown, On my children's native spot, Hence! with his dark renown Cumber our birth-place not ! “Will my sire's unransom'd field O’er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield Soft slumber in the grave ? “ The tree before him fell Which we cherish'd many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell And heave against his bier. “ The land that I have till’d, Hath yet its brooding breast With my home's white ashes fill'd And it shall not give him rest. “ Here each proud column's bed Hath been wet by weeping eyes,Hence ! and bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries !” Shame glow'd on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leader's dust e'en then. A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far ! And a peasant's tale could dim The name, a nation's star! а One deep voice thus arose From a heart which wrongs had rivenOh! who shall number those That were but heard in Heaven ? * * For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remarkable circumstances which attended the obsequies of William the Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Français, vol. iv. p. 480. THE SOUND OF THE SEA. Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, For ever and the same! Whose thunders nought can tame. Oh! many a glorious voice is gone, From the rich bowers of earth, And hush'd is many a lovely one Of mournfulness or mirth. The Dorian Aute that sigh'd of yore Along thy wave, is still ; On Zion's awful hill. And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord That breath'd the mystic tone, And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs pour'd, Are with her eagles flown. And mute the Moorish horn, that rang O’er stream and mountain free, And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang, Hath died in Galilee. But thou art swelling on, thou deep, Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep Until the close of time. Thou liftest up thy solemn voice To every wind and sky, In that one harmony. It fills the noontide's calm profound, The sunset's heaven of gold; Ev'n as when first it rollid. Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where sceptred cities rose ! Thou speak’st of one who doth not change -So may our hearts repose. |