Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/325

Rh

On the board is mantling the purple wine, And wreaths of white flowers the maidens twine; For distant and faint is heard the swell Of bugles and voices from yonder dell,— The victors are coming: and by the tower Had watched for the midnight hour.

Oh, that lone sickness of the heart, Which bids the weary moments depart, Yet dreads their departing; the cross she held fast, And kissed off the tears—they are come at last! But has not the bugle a plaining wail, As the notes of its sadness come on the gale; Why comes there no shout of the victors' pride, As red from the battle they homewards ride?