He looked down from the fortress won, on the tents and towers below,
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets—­and a gloom came o’er his brow: 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbals’ 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! oh! 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 our’s—­one path: 
Thou hast wrapt me in thy soldier’s cloak, thou hast fenced me with thy breast;
Thou hast watched 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—­
Oh! 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 passed 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 ev’n as death! 
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet’s breath;
Let me see the fiery charger’s foam, and the royal banner wave—­
But where art thou, my brother?—­where?—­in thy low and early grave!”

And louder swelled the songs of joy through that victorious night,
And faster flowed 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! oh! my brother! best and bravest! thou art gone!”

Mrs. Hemans.—­Monthly Magazine.

* * * * *

A SUMMER TOUR.