Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/574

  But, to commit him to the watery grave, O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave, One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay, Upraised the body: thrice I bade him stay; Bor still my wordless woe had much to say, And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept. At last my sisters, with humane constraint, Held me, and I was calm as dying saint; While that stern weeper- lowered into the sea My ill-starred boy! Deep—buried deep, he slept. And then I looked to heaven in agony, And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain, That I might meet my beauteous boy again! Oh, had he lived to reach this wretched land, And then expired, I would have blessed the strand! But where my poor boy lies I may not lie; I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers his turf— His pillow hath no cover but the surf; I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave! Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his grave!  undefined  tumult of battle had ceased—high in air The standard of Britain triumphantly waved; And the remnant of foes had all fled in despair, Whom night, intervening, from slaughter had saved:

When a veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp, Slow pacing the bounds of the carcass-strewn plain; Not base his intent,—for he quitted his camp To comfort the dying,—not plunder the slain.

Though dauntless in war, at a story of woe Down his age-furrowed cheeks the tears often ran; Alike proud to conquer or spare a brave foe, He fought like a hero!—"but felt like a man!"

As he counted the slain,—"Ah, conquest!" he cried, "Thou art glorious indeed, but how dearly thou'rt won! "Too dearly, alas!" a voice faintly replied— It thrilled through his heart, 'twas the voice of his son! 