The King of Arragon's Lament for His Brother

There were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish’d city’s
halls,
As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls;
And the conquerors fill’d the wine-cup high, after years of bright
blood shed;
But their lord, the King of Arragon, midst the triumph wail’d the
dead.

He look’d down from the fortress won, on the tents and flowers
below,
The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets--and a gloom came o’er his
brow:
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal’s tone;
But his heart, midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.

And he cried, “Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!
But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?--
I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,
And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is mournful to my soul.

“My brother! O my brother! thou art gone--the true and brave,
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave.
There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead
on;
There was one to love me in the world--my brother! thou art
gone!

“In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest’s wrath,
We stood together, side by side--one hope was ours, one path;
Thou hast wrapp’d me in thy soldier’s cloak, thou hast fenced me
with thy breast;
Thou hast watch’d beside my couch of pain--oh! bravest heart, and
best!

“I see the festive lights around,--o’er a dull, sad world they
shine;
I hear the voice of victory--my Pedro! where is thine?
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply!--
O brother! I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!

“I have hosts and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway,
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly,--my friend hath pass’d away!
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain;
And the face that was as light to mine--it cannot come again!

“I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a
crown;
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold
renown;
How often will my weary heart midst the sounds of triumph die,
When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!

“I am lonely--I am lonely! this rest is even as death!
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet’s
breath;
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner wave--
But where art thou, my brother? where? In thy low and early grave!”

And louder swell’d the songs of joy through that victorious night,
And faster flow’d the red wine forth, by the stars’ and torches’
light:
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror’s moan--
“My brother! O my brother! best and bravest! thou art gone!”