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.
