 | The battle of Niagara |  |
He paused—and then imploringly,
There went in lustre from his eye
A mute petition to the sky:
He turned and saw the dark-eyed maid;
And saw her drop a trembling tear—
Then on her breast his hand he laid,
As listening if its pulse betrayed
One added throb of doubt or fear.
Then—gazing on her downcast eye,
He shook his head reproachfully—
Put back her flowing raven hair,
And wiped the tear-drop glittering there,
And shook his own imperial brow,
And thanked her with his eye—
Then dropt her yielding hand—and now
His harp is pealing high!
And now a murmuring comes again,
A mournful—faint—and languid strain.
There went in lustre from his eye
A mute petition to the sky:
He turned and saw the dark-eyed maid;
And saw her drop a trembling tear—
Then on her breast his hand he laid,
As listening if its pulse betrayed
One added throb of doubt or fear.
Then—gazing on her downcast eye,
He shook his head reproachfully—
Put back her flowing raven hair,
And wiped the tear-drop glittering there,
And shook his own imperial brow,
And thanked her with his eye—
Then dropt her yielding hand—and now
His harp is pealing high!
215
A mournful—faint—and languid strain.
| The battle of Niagara | |