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Literary Gazette, 28th March, 1829, Page 212
ORIGINAL POETRY.
A SKETCH.
"They're passing now adown our vale;
Come, leave the old beech-tree,
And let that humming wheel be staid;
Come here and gaze with me.
Hark, hark, the gallant trumpet's note,
The war-drum rolls around;
The crimson banners seem to float
More proudly at the sound.
Those noble steeds, how each proud neck
Bends to its rider's hand,
Although the steel-wrought rein is held
As 't were a silken band!
How bold they ride!—as Victory sat
Beside each snow-white crest;
Battle is in each eager eye,
And I can dream the rest.
Each lance is gleaming in the sun,
War meteors, how they shine!
How glorious is the soldier's lot!
I would such lot were mine!"
She raised a sudden tearful glance
Upon his glowing brow:
Why should her cheek be so snow-pale,
For his is crimson now?
And her sweet face is wont to be
The shadow of his own,
Where every passing change of his
Is in a mirror shewn.
"Such, O my Ulric, would'st thou be
One of yon warrior band?
Why there is death in every heart,
And blood on every hand.
