 | Lucile |  |
XXXII.
'Tis the pale nun once more!But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the door?
How oft had he watch'd through the glory and gloom
Of the battle, with long, longing looks that dim plume
Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, stoop'd
To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd!
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The dreams it still scared! through what fond fear and doubt
Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero! (What's like
A boy's love for some famous man?)... Oh, to strike
A wild path through the battle, down striking perchance
Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of France,
And so fall in his glorious regard!... Oft, how oft
Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching aloft
The dim battle that plume dance and dart—never seen
So near till this moment! how eager to glean
Every stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble in praise
Of his hero—each tale of old venturous days
In the desert! And now...could he speak out his heart
Face to face with that man ere he died!
| Lucile | |