Of love's farewell. Hope, for what joy can thrill
The maiden's bosom with such throb of bliss,
As when, returning from the fields of death,
The warrior comes in all the pride of fame,
And seeks his dearest trophy in her smile!
Fear, for what heart but sickens at the thought
Of danger darkening round some cherish'd being!
A few short hurried vows of changeless faith,
And their farewell was taken silently.
That sorrow is not much, which seeks for words
To image forth its grief. Methinks adieu
Is cold, when uttered with aught else but tears.
XII.
'Tis the bright hour of noon; the sun looks forth
In all his splendour, o'er the stirring scene
Of thousands rushing onward to the strife.
They come in armed ranks, and spear and shield
