256 PERE LA CHAISE.
In a strange soil. Yea, from my own far home They ve wandered here to die. Were there not
graves
Enough among our forests ? by the marge Of our broad streams ? amid the hallowed mounds Of early kindred ? that ye needs must come This weary way, to share the strangers bed, My people ? I could weep to find ye here ! And yet your names are sweet, the words ye grave In the loved language of mine infancy, Most pleasant to the eye, involved so long Mid foreign idioms.
Yonder height doth boast The warrior-chiefs, who led their legions on To sack and siege ; whose heavy tramp disturbed The Cossack in his hut, the Alpine birds Who build above the cloud, and Egypt s slaves, Crouching beneath their sky-crowned pyramids. How silent are they all ! No warning trump Amid their host ! no steed ! no frantic foot Of those who rush to battle ! Haughtily The aspiring marble tells each passing group Their vaunted fame. Oh, shades of mighty men ! Went these proud honors with you, where the spear And shield resound no more ? Cleaves the blood stain
Around ye there? Steal the deep-echoing groans Of those who fell, the cry of those who mourned, Across the abyss that bars you from our sight, Waking remorseful pangs ?
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