(For the Mirror.)

  The angel of death hath too surely prest
  His fatal sign on the warrior’s breast—­
  Quench’d is the light of the eagle-eye,
  And the nervous limbs rest languidly—­
  The eloquent tongue is silent and still,
  The deep clear voice again may not chill
  The hearers’ hearts with its own deep thrill.

  Ah, who can gaze on death, nor inward feel
  A creeping horror through the bosom steal,
  Like one who stands upon a precipice,
  And sees below a mangled sacrifice,
  Feeling that he himself must ere long fall,
  With none to save him, none to hear his call,
  Or wrest him from the agonizing thrall?

  And yet it is but sleep we look upon! 
  But in that sleep from which the life is gone
  Sinks the proud Saladin, Egyptia’s lord. 
  His faith’s firm champion, and his Prophet’s sword;
  Not e’en the red cross knights withstand his pow’r,
  But, sorrowing, mark the Moslem’s triumph hour,
  And the pale crescent float from Salem’s tow’r.

  As the keen arrow, hurl’d with giant-might,
  Rends the thin air in its impetuous flight,
  But being spent on earth innoxious lies,
  E’en its track vanish’d from the yielding skies—­
  So lies the soldan, stopp’d his bright career,
  His vanquish’d realms their prostrate heads uprear,
  And coward kings forget their servile fear.

  Ere yet stern Azrael[10] cut the thread of life,
  While Death and Nature wag’d unequal strife,
  Spoke the expiring hero:—­“Hither stand,
  Receive your dying sovereign’s last command. 
  When that the spirit from my frame is riven,
  (Oh, gracious Alla! be my sins forgiven,
  And bright-eyed Houris waft my soul to heaven,)
  Then when you bear me to my last retreat,
  Let not the mourners howl along the street—­
  Let not my soldiers in the train be seen,
  Nor banners float, nor lance or sabre gleam—­
  Nor yet, to testify a vain regret,
  O’er my remains let costly shrine be set,
  Or sculptur’d stone, or gilded minaret;
  But let a herald go before my bier,
  Bearing on point of lance the robe I wear. 
  Shouting aloud, ’Behold what now remains
  Of the proud conqueror of Syria’s plains,
  Who bow’d the Persian, made the Christian feel
  The deadly sharpness of the Moslem steel;
  But of his conquests, riches, honours, might,
  Naught sleeps with him in death’s unbroken night,
  Save this poor robe.’”

    [10] Azrael, in the Mahometan creed, the angel of death.

D.A.H.

* * * * *

BANQUETTING HOUSE, WHITEHALL.

(For the Mirror.)