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Which knows no neuter, owns but foes] All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim That slavery nothing which was still a name. The moment came, the hour when Otho
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord,
But that long absence from his native clime
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought:
His summons found the destined criminal Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, Defying earth, and confident of heaven. That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves! Such is their cry-some watchword for the fight
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the And each long restless night, and silent
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude:
gate; For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew,
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew.
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye; Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. And they who watch'd might mark that day by day
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway; But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host: Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head; Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains With these, the people, than his fellowthanes.
If this were policy, so far 'twas sound, The million judged but of him as they found;
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot;
With him old avarice found his hoard
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed!
Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd
Such sway, their infant-monarch hardly reign'd;
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, The Serfs contemned the one, and hated both :
They waited but a leader, and they found
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst,
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd
And is again; he only changed the scene. Light care had he for life, and less for fame,
But not less fitted for the desperate game: He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate,
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate.
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd?
He raised the humble but to bend the proud.
It is resolved-they march-consenting
Already they perceive its tranquil beam
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight:
A moment's pause, 'tis but to breathe their band,
Fresh with the nerve the new-born im- Or shall they onward press, or here with
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line,
The first success to Lara's numbers clung: It matters little-if they charge the foes
The hand that kindles cannot quench the
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade,
And palls the patience of his baffled heart,
However link'd to baffle such design.
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt."
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath
His blade is bared, in him there is an air
Along his aspect an unwonted hue
remain'd, The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd;
The truth, and not the terror of his breast. | And near yet quivering with what life
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!"
The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward
driven, Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven; Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel; Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still
Despair to daring, and a front to foes;
Which runs all redly till the morning beam.
Commanding, aiding, animating all, Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel,
Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel. None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ;
But those that waver turn to smite again, While yet they find the firmest of the foe Recoil before their leader's look and blow: Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, He foils their ranks, or reunites his own; Himself he spared not-once they seem'd to fly
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high,
And shook—why sudden droops that plumed
The shaft is sped-the arrow's in his breast! That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride.
The word of triumph fainted from his
But yet the sword instinctively retains,
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain!
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; The war-horse masterless is on the earth, And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth;
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, Whose waters mock the lip of those that die; That panting thirst which scorches in the breath
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, In vain impels the burning mouth to crave One drop-the last-to cool it for the grave; With feeble and convulsive effort swept, Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept;
The faint remains of life such struggles
Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, Where but for him that strife had never been,
A breathing but devoted warrior lay: "Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. His follower once, and now his only guide, And with his scarf would staunch the tides Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, that rush,
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush; In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow: And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain,
He clasps the hand that pang which would And merely adds another throb to pain.
And turns to Kaled :-each remaining word, | And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor
They spake of other scenes, but what-is known
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone;
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound,
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement
They seem'd even then-that twain- unto the last
But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, And dull the film along his dim eye grew; His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er Whose darkness none beside should pene- He press'd the hand he held upon his heartThe weak yet still untiring knee that bore;
To half forget the present in the past;
Their words, though faint, were many— from the tone
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain,
For that faint throb which answers not again. Their import those who heard could judge It beats!"-Away, thou dreamer! he is
From this, you might have deem'd young
More near than Lara's by his voice and
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke
That raised his arm to point where such
He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance;
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain;
Scarce breathing more than that he loved
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers
sleep, But where he died his grave was dug as deep; Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound;
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief.
She told nor whence, nor why she left Heaved up the bank, behind
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind.
Is human love the growth of human will?
And when they love, your smilers guess
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.
They were not common links, that form'd
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain;
and dash'd it from the shore,
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and
As if even yet too much its surface show'd:
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone;
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there,
And slung them with a more than common
Meantime the Serf had crept to where
Himself might safely mark what this might
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast,
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk :
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread;
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore,
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll;
And Kaled-Lara-Ezzelin, are gone,
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time,
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse,
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore,
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
Where yet she scarce believed that he was
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire