Page:Friendship's Offering 1826.pdf/4

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At first, a common tale;—she loved, was loved, And love was destiny and happiness. But red war was abroad; and there are charms In the bright sabre, flashing to the sun, The banner, crimson as the morning sky It seems to meet, the thunder of the drum, The clashing atabal, the haughty steed Impatient for the battle, and the ranks, Glittering and glorious in their armed array: Aye, these have charms—but not for woman's dreams. The youth went to the warfare, where he fell, Unknown, unnamed, unmissed;—it is the fate Of thousands, swept away like autumn leaves, Young, brave, with heart and hand, and all that makes The hero,—but in vain. And where is she, His lovely, lonely one? Not in her bower, Not in her father's hall; no more they see Her white veil floating on the evening air, The moon-light shining on the mystic bark She watched so anxiously. Again she came; But not the same, as when, with summer flowers And scented lamp, she sought the river side; But pale and silent, like a shadowy thing That has looked on the other world, and known The secrets of the grave, but forced, awhile, To linger on the earth it loathes. She held Within her arms an urn; beneath the shade Of the tree which had been the favourite haunt Of her young lover, at the twilight hour— For then they met—she placed her treasure down.