Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise,
Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom—
As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb.
There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread
Dark o’er that silent valley of the dead;
Where two fair pillars rise, embower’d and lone,
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o’ergrown,
Young Hamet kneels—while thus his vows are pour’d,
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword:
—“Spirit of him who first within my mind