They stole a quiet hour, to share
The perfumed coolness of the air;
And she would take her lute, and sing
Sweet songs of old remembering,
Breathing of home—talk of the fame
Gathering round her Warrior's name,
And mix with future hope a sigh
Given to pleasant days gone by.—
The day of battle! Hark, the sound
Of the deep trumpet swells around;
The Earl goes forth: 'tis Edith's hand
Has girded her own Warrior's brand,
Has smoothed the war-plumes on his crest,
Has buckled on the mailed vest.
Felt she not proud at heart to see
He was the flower of chivalry,
As, curbing in his steed of gray,
He rode the first to lead the way?
That morn he went forth like a king,
Glorious in his first triumphing;
But the sweet evening's scented breath
Flowed cool upon his wound of death!
Curses upon the coward craft,
His foeman's was a poisoned shaft.
There came no tear to Edith's eye,
But she knelt by him tenderly,
And parted his thick raven hair,
That he might feel the soothing air;
And placed his head upon her breast,
And lulled him with soft words to rest.
'Twas as she hoped,—he sleeps; and now
Her lips are on his throbbing brow,
Sucking the poison forth: 't was bliss
To know she gave her life for his.
He woke, but not to feel again
The hot fire rushing through each vein,
But as aroused from slumbers deep,
And sweet as those which infants sleep.
But Edith! ah, her pulse beats low,
Her cheek has lost its sunset glow,
The violet of her eye is dim,—
He knows it all,—she dies for him.L. E. L.
