Our banners are taken, our knights laid low,
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe,
And thy Lord"—his voice took a sadder sound—
"Thy Lord—he is not on the bloody ground!
There are those who tell that the leader's plume
Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom."
—A change o'er her mien and her spirit pass'd;
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,
She dash'd the tears from her kindling eye,
With a glance as of sudden royalty;
The proud blood sprang, in a fiery flow,
Quick over bosom, and cheek, and brow,
And her young voice rose, till the peasant shook
At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look:
—"Dost thou stand midst the tombs of the glorious dead,
And fear not to say that their son hath fled?
—Away! he is lying by lance and shield—
Point me the path to his battle field!"
The shadows of the forest
Are about the Lady now;
She is hurrying through the midnight on,
Beneath the dark pine-bough.
There's a murmur of omens in every leaf,
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief;
The branches that rock to the tempest-strife,
Are groaning like things of troubled life;
The wind from the battle seems rushing by
With a funeral march through the gloomy sky;
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,
But her frame in the daring of love is strong,
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne,
And girded all fearful things to scorn.
And fearful things were around her spread,
When she reach'd the field of the warrior-dead;
There lay the noble, the valiant low—
—Aye! but one word speaks of deeper woe;
There lay the loved!—on each fallen head
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed;
Sisters were watching, in many a home,
For the fetter'd footstep, no more to come;
Names in the prayers of that night were spoken
Whose claim unto kindred prayers was broken;
And the fire was heap'd, and the bright wine pour'd
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board;
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,
—And oh! ye beloved of woman, farewell!
Silently, with lips compress'd,
Pale hands clasp'd above her breast,
Stately brow of anguish high,
Death-like cheek, but dauntless eye;
Silently, o'er that red plain,
Moved the lady midst the slain.
Sometimes it seem'd as a charging cry,
Or the ringing tramp of a steed came nigh;
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn,
Sudden and shrill, from the mountains borne;
