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 The hour of her deliverance drawing near; I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, I had her latest look of earthly love, I felt her hand's last pressure. — Son of Orleans! I would not wish to live to know that hour. When I could think upon a dear friend dead. And weep not; but they are not bitter tears, — Not painful now; for Christ hath risen, first fruits Of them that slept; and we shall meet again. Meet, not again to part: the grave hath lost Its victory.

"I remember, as her bier Went to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft. And soar'd amid the sunshine, carolling So full of joy, that to the mourner's ear More mournfully than dirge or passing bell, The joyous carol came, and made us feel That of the multitude of beings, none But man was wretched.

"Then my soul awoke. For it had slumber'd long in happiness. And never feeling misery, never thought What others suffer. i, as best I might. Solaced the keen regret of Elinor; And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's, On whom, the only comfort of her age, She centred now her love. A younger birth, Aged nearly as myself was Theodore, An ardent youth, who with the kindest care Had sooth'd his sister's sorrow. We had knelt By her death-bed together, and no bond In closer union knits two human hearts Than fellowship in grief.

"It chanced as once Beside the fire of Elinor I sat, The night was comfortless, the loud blast howl'd. And as we drew around the social hearth. We heard the rain beat hard. Driven by the storm A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light; We heapt the fire, and spread the friendly board. ' "Tis a rude night,' the stranger cried: 'safe housed Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain. I too could be content to dwell in peace, Resting my head upon the lap of love, But that my country calls. When the winds roar, Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers, And think on Conrade.' "Theodore replied, 'Success go with thee! Something we have known Of war, and tasted its calamity; And I am well content to dwell in peace. Albeit inglorious, thanking the good God Who made me to be happy.'                           "'Did that God,' Cried Conrade,' form thy heart for happiness, When Desolation royally careers Over thy wretched country? Did that God Form thee for Peace when Slaughter is abroad, When her brooks run with blood, and Rape, and Murder, Stalk through her flaming towns? Live thou in peace, Young man! my heart is human: I must feel For what my brethren suffer.' While he spake Such mingled passions character'd his face Of fierce and terrible benevolence. That I did tremble as I listen'd to him; And in my heart tumultuous thoughts arose Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild, And vast, — yet such they were as made me pant As though by some divinity possess'd.

"'But is there not some duty due to those We love?' said Theodore; 'is there an employ More righteous than to cheer declining age, And thus with filial tenderness repay Parental care?'                "'Hard is it,' Conrade cried, 'Ay, hard indeed, to part from those we love; And I have suffer'd that severest pang. I have left an aged mother; I have left One upon whom my heart has fasten'd all Its dearest, best affections. Should I live Till France shall see the blessed hour of peace, I shall return; my heart will be content, My duties then will have been well discharged, And I may then be happy. There are those Who deem such thoughts the fancies of a mind Strict beyond measure, and were well content, If I should soften down my rigid nature Even to inglorious ease, to honor me. But pure of heart and high in self-esteem I must be honor'd by myself: all else, The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind Worthless.'

"So saying from his belt he took The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him, And wistless what I did, half from the sheath Drew forth its glittering blade. I gazed upon it. And shuddering, as I touch'd its edge, exclaim'd, How horrible it is with the keen sword To gore the finely-fibred human frame! I could not strike a lamb.

"He answer'd me, 'Maiden, thou sayest well. I could not strike A lamb! — But when the merciless invader Spares not gray age, and mocks the infant's shriek As it doth writhe upon his cursed lance. And forces to his foul embrace the wife Even where her slaughter'd husband bleeds to death. Almighty God! I should not be a man If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down. Think well of this, young man!' he cried, and took The hand of Theodore; 'think well of this; As you are human, as you hope to live In peace, amid the dearest joys of home, Think well of this! You have a tender mother; As you do wish that she may die in peace, As you would even to madness agonize To hear this maiden call on you in vain For help, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful grasp. Think that there are such horrors ! that even now, Some city flames, and haply, as in Roan, Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast Yet hangs and pulls for food! — Woe be to those By whom the evil comes! And woe to him,