The improvisatrice; and other poems By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] With embellishments. A new edition |
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| BALLADS. |
 | The improvisatrice; and other poems |  |
317
BALLADS.
319
THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE.
There's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb,
Beneath is a soldier lying:
The death wound came amid sword and plume,
When banner and ball were flying.
Beneath is a soldier lying:
The death wound came amid sword and plume,
When banner and ball were flying.
Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,
By wet wild flowers surrounded;
The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,
Where the steps of his childhood bounded.
By wet wild flowers surrounded;
The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,
Where the steps of his childhood bounded.
There were tears that fell from manly eyes,
There was woman's gentler weeping,
And the wailing of age and infant cries,
O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.
There was woman's gentler weeping,
And the wailing of age and infant cries,
O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.
320
He had left his home in his spirit's pride,
With his father's sword and blessing;
He stood with the valiant side by side,
His country's wrongs redressing.
With his father's sword and blessing;
He stood with the valiant side by side,
His country's wrongs redressing.
He came again in the light of his fame,
When the red campaign was over:
One heart that in secret had kept his name,
Was claimed by the soldier lover.
When the red campaign was over:
One heart that in secret had kept his name,
Was claimed by the soldier lover.
But the cloud of strife came upon the sky;
He left his sweet home for battle:
And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
And the cannon's long death-rattle.
He left his sweet home for battle:
And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
And the cannon's long death-rattle.
He came again,—but an altered man:
The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,
For the shadow of death hung o'er him.
The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,
For the shadow of death hung o'er him.
321
He spoke of victory,—spoke of cheer:—
These are words that are vainly spoken
To the childless mother or orphan's ear,
Or the widow whose heart is broken.
These are words that are vainly spoken
To the childless mother or orphan's ear,
Or the widow whose heart is broken.
A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,
Half hidden by yonder willow;
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,
But who died on his own home-pillow!
Half hidden by yonder willow;
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,
But who died on his own home-pillow!
322
SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE.
Another day—another day
And yet he comes not nigh;
I look amid the dim blue hills,
Yet nothing meets mine eye.
And yet he comes not nigh;
I look amid the dim blue hills,
Yet nothing meets mine eye.
I hear the rush of mountain-streams
Upon the echoes borne;
I hear the singing of the birds,
But not my hunter's horn.
Upon the echoes borne;
I hear the singing of the birds,
But not my hunter's horn.
The eagle sails in darkness past,
The watchful chamois bounds;
But what I look for comes not near,—
My Ulric's hawk and hounds.
The watchful chamois bounds;
But what I look for comes not near,—
My Ulric's hawk and hounds.
323
Three times I thus have watched the snow
Grow crimson with the stain
The setting sun threw o'er the rock,
And I have watched in vain.
Grow crimson with the stain
The setting sun threw o'er the rock,
And I have watched in vain.
I love to see the graceful bow
Across his shoulder slung,—
I love to see the golden horn
Beside his baldric hung.
Across his shoulder slung,—
I love to see the golden horn
Beside his baldric hung.
I love his dark hounds, and I love
His falcon's sweeping flight;
I love to see his manly cheek
With mountain-colours bright.
His falcon's sweeping flight;
I love to see his manly cheek
With mountain-colours bright.
I've waited patiently, but now
Would that the chase were o'er:
Well may he love the hunter's toil,
But he should love me more.
Would that the chase were o'er:
Well may he love the hunter's toil,
But he should love me more.
324
Why stays he thus?—he would be here
If his love equalled mine;—
Methinks had I one fond caged dove,
I would not let it pine.
If his love equalled mine;—
Methinks had I one fond caged dove,
I would not let it pine.
But, hark! what are those ringing steps
That up the valley come?
I see his hounds,—I see himself,—
My Ulric, welcome home!
That up the valley come?
I see his hounds,—I see himself,—
My Ulric, welcome home!
325
WHEN SHOULD LOVERS BREATHE THEIR VOWS?
When should lovers breathe their vows?When should ladies hear them?
When the dew is on the boughs,
When none else are near them;
When the moon shines cold and pale,
When the birds are sleeping,
When no voice is on the gale,
When the rose is weeping;
When the stars are bright on high,
Like hopes in young Love's dreaming,
And glancing round the light clouds fly,
Like soft fears to shade their beaming.
326
On the brow by starlight wreathing;
And the lips their richest incense give
When the sigh is at midnight breathing.
Oh, softest is the cheek's love-ray
When seen by moonlight hours,
Other roses seek the day,
But blushes are night-flowers.
Oh, when the moon and stars are bright,
When the dew-drops glisten,
Then their vows should lovers plight,
Then should ladies listen!
THE END.
| The improvisatrice; and other poems | |