Thus much forgive; and trust, in such an hour,
I had not said e'en this, but for the hope
That when the voice of victory is heard
From the fair Tuscan valleys, in its swell
Should mournful dirges mingle for the dead,
And I be one of those who are at rest,
You may chance recollect this word, and say,
That day, upon the bloody field, there fell
One who had loved thee long, and loved thee well.

A MONK'S CURSE.

Hear me, thou hard of heart:
They who go forth to battle, are led on
With sprightly trumpets and shrill clam'rous clarions!
The drum doth roll its double notes along,
Echoing the horses' tramp; and the sweet fife
Runs through the yielding air in dulcet measure,
That makes the heart leap in its case of steel;
Thou--shalt be knell'd unto thy death by bells,
Pond'rous and brazen-tongued, whose sullen toll
Shall cleave thine aching brain, and on thy soul
Fall with a leaden weight: the muffled drum
Shall mutter round thy path like distant thunder:
'Stead of the war-cry, and wild battle roar,--
That swells upon the tide of victory,
And seems unto the conqueror's eager ear
Triumphant harmony of glorious discords:
There shall be voices cry, Foul shame on thee;
And the infuriate populace shall clamour