Stretched by a broken lance. They reached the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into high archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trod the hollow-ringing aisle,
A strange, deep echo shuddered through the pile,
Till crested heads, at last, in silence bent
Round the De Couci's antique monument,
When dust to dust was given: and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine:
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave,
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid,
In slumber, on his shield. Then all was done,
All still, around the dead. His name was heard,
Perchance, when wine-cups flowed, and hearts were stirred
By some old song, or tale of battle won,
Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And, with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side!—
Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1826.pdf/6
