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THE FOREST SANCTUARY.
15


XXIV.

I see it still—the lofty mien thou borest—
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power!
The very look that once thou brightly worest,
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour,
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear,
Midst the white Andes—ev'n as mountain deer,
Hemm'd in our camp—but thro' the javelin shower
We rent our way, a tempest of despair!

—And thou—hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!


XXV.

I call the fond wish back—for thou hast perish'd
More nobly far, my Alvar!—making known
The might of truth4[1]; and be thy memory cherish'd
With theirs, the thousands, that around her throne
Have pour'd their lives out smiling, in that doom
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb!
—Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown,
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread,

Filling man's heart and home with records of the dead.
  1. ↑
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