Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems by Robert Charles Dallas ... Written between the ages of eleven and thirteen years |
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ON A LADY'S GLOVE. |
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 | Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems |  |
155
ON A LADY'S GLOVE.
Soft, soft, is yon moonbeam that plays o'er the water,
And soft is the spirit that's riding the air:
The heart of the warrior is resting from slaughter;
The breast of the lover is waking to care.
And soft is the spirit that's riding the air:
The heart of the warrior is resting from slaughter;
The breast of the lover is waking to care.
Full oft, while with tear drops bedewing his pillow,
He sighs for his fair one, far, far o'er the wave;
And dreams, half unconscious, though tost on the billow,
Of that, parting, look that his Caroline gave.
He sighs for his fair one, far, far o'er the wave;
And dreams, half unconscious, though tost on the billow,
Of that, parting, look that his Caroline gave.
Oh! yet though the beacon of Glory be blazing,
His fond heart to wean from the home of his love;
On some cherish'd token he still must be gazing,
And that precious relict—his Caroline's glove.
His fond heart to wean from the home of his love;
On some cherish'd token he still must be gazing,
And that precious relict—his Caroline's glove.
156
With lover-like transport, now clasping the treasure,
That swells the full tide of his high throbbing heart;
Illusive the dream! but how soothing the pleasure!
He vows from his bosom it ne'er shall depart.
That swells the full tide of his high throbbing heart;
Illusive the dream! but how soothing the pleasure!
He vows from his bosom it ne'er shall depart.
Yet though all around him war's tumults be closing,
He sighs o'er the tear-blister'd emblem a prayer:
The lily it veiled, on his bosom reposing,
With sun beams of fancy may light off despair.!
He sighs o'er the tear-blister'd emblem a prayer:
The lily it veiled, on his bosom reposing,
With sun beams of fancy may light off despair.!
And erst as in chivalry's chronicled story,
That glove o'er his helmet shall beam through the fray;
And love strung to fame, and all panting for glory,
'Gainst fortune and fate turn the tide of the day.
That glove o'er his helmet shall beam through the fray;
And love strung to fame, and all panting for glory,
'Gainst fortune and fate turn the tide of the day.
But ah! while with hope his proud bosom is beating,
Should some blasting ball stop the course of his breath;
The tumult of life all around him be fleeting;
His fire flashing orbits be fading in death;
Should some blasting ball stop the course of his breath;
The tumult of life all around him be fleeting;
His fire flashing orbits be fading in death;
157
“Oh! tell Her,” (he cries, while his heart's blood is gushing
In torrents of crimson that flow from his side,)
“The last stream of life from this bosom is rushing:
I breath'd for Her, living: and constant I died.”
In torrents of crimson that flow from his side,)
“The last stream of life from this bosom is rushing:
I breath'd for Her, living: and constant I died.”
| Ode to the Duke of Wellington, and other poems | |