And, oh ! was it meet, that — no requiem read 



o'er him — 

 No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 

 And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before 



him — 

 UnhonourM the Pilgrim from life should depart ? 



When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has 



yielded, 

 The tapestry waves dark round the dim -lighted 



hall ; 

 With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, 

 And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : 

 Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches 



are gleaming ; 

 In the proudly -arch'd chapel the banners are 



beaming, 

 Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, 

 Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall. 



But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, 



To lay down thy head like the meek mountain 



lamb, 

 When, wildcr'd, he drops from some cliff huge in 



stature, 

 And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 

 And more stately thy couch by this desert lake 



lying, 



*37 



