 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.
She sought him thro' the bands of fight,
'Midst many a pile of slaughtered dead,
Beneath the pale moon's misty light,
With form that shudder'd at each tread:
For every step in blood was taken,
And more than woman's soul had shaken,
Unused to such, to glide alone,
Where death had raised his gory throne,
Wide, proud, of many a scarce cold bone.
'Midst many a pile of slaughtered dead,
Beneath the pale moon's misty light,
With form that shudder'd at each tread:
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And more than woman's soul had shaken,
Unused to such, to glide alone,
Where death had raised his gory throne,
Wide, proud, of many a scarce cold bone.
She sought him, for whose vow of truth,
She left the well loved scenes of youth,
To share his fortunes, join his fate—
For that, alas! she came too late.
Already, night, a breathing time,
Had given to war, and gorgeless crime;
Had spread her mantle round to hide,
The blood, the sun had blush'd to see,
And leapt to join the briny tide,
And paled the face of victory.
The conflict urged from morning's dawn,
With unabated hate and rage,
Which blood, fatigue could not assuage,
Now paused, when evenings veil was drawn.
But not that hate, had felt remorse,
Oh! no! the sabre's rage was stay'd
'Till morn should give its owner force,
To flesh again its crimson blade.
She left the well loved scenes of youth,
To share his fortunes, join his fate—
For that, alas! she came too late.
Already, night, a breathing time,
Had given to war, and gorgeless crime;
Had spread her mantle round to hide,
The blood, the sun had blush'd to see,
And leapt to join the briny tide,
And paled the face of victory.
The conflict urged from morning's dawn,
With unabated hate and rage,
Which blood, fatigue could not assuage,
Now paused, when evenings veil was drawn.
But not that hate, had felt remorse,
Oh! no! the sabre's rage was stay'd
'Till morn should give its owner force,
To flesh again its crimson blade.
She sought him, where a pile arose—
There war had struck her deepest blows—
Nor utter'd aught of many woes.
Tho' trembling still, her hands essay'd,
To smoothe the tresses of a brow,
And cleanse the face from dust, the blade
From stain, tho' dreading much to know,
(And trembling still, with innate fear,)
Her bosom's hope, her heart's despair.
There war had struck her deepest blows—
Nor utter'd aught of many woes.
Tho' trembling still, her hands essay'd,
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And cleanse the face from dust, the blade
From stain, tho' dreading much to know,
(And trembling still, with innate fear,)
Her bosom's hope, her heart's despair.
She sought her lover's form no more—
But, when the sun with light renew'd,
Rose o'er the field of clotted gore,
That maidens lip was glued,
To one, apart from all the rest,
Who bore his death upon his breast!
Nor sigh she gave, nor tear she shed,
Her heart was still, its pulse was fled—
The maiden was already dead.
But, when the sun with light renew'd,
Rose o'er the field of clotted gore,
That maidens lip was glued,
To one, apart from all the rest,
Who bore his death upon his breast!
Nor sigh she gave, nor tear she shed,
Her heart was still, its pulse was fled—
The maiden was already dead.
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