The Warrior.
"Up, vassals! up, and proudly rear before the joy-fraught blast
The banners of our ancient house, the trophies of the past;
There's tidings from the battle-plains, a glorious conquest's ours,
And victry's flags shall float anew from his ancestral towers.
We know the legends of our race, the deeds our fathers done,
Their dauntlessness and chivalry are richly thine, my son.
And now when triumph fills our land, each home rejoicings hold—
How proudly shall I welcome thee, my beautiful, my bold!
Why tarry, then, my son, my son? I long to clasp thee now—
Come, with the laurels bravely won upon thy bright young brow.
Oh, high as valiant is the blood that courses through thy veins!
Come, and unstain'd escutcheons heir, and all these vast domains.
Thy halls are filled with minstrelsy, and spread the festive board
With every luxury that home and far-off lands afford;
And I with all a mother's heart, in triumph and in pride,
Shall enter in my country's joys, when thou art by my side.
Hark, hark! a hoof is on the breeze, a harbinger is nigh;
At sounds of coming carriage wheels the portals open fly.
But why, Sir Knight, thy cheek so pale, thy words so strange and wild?
Why from his mother's doating arms still lingers back my child?
And why prevails deep silence now throughout these crowded halls,
As heavy tread of martial feet upon the marble falls?
Oh God! the truth, the fearful truth, hath met my stricken sight—
My boy is borne to his proud home with features still and white;
His radiant locks fall dark with gore upon his forehead cold,
Those locks which sunbeams loved to kiss, and kindle into gold;
His young life-blood has stain'd his vest, a sabre wound is there—
What hand dare slay the widow's son, the noble's orphan heir,
The scion of a spotless race, of lineage high and proud?
But what avails to mould or worm, who lies beneath the shroud!
Is this the glory battle yields? Take, take the wreath away
Which mocks his icy brow; and, oh! re-animate that clay.
Back, menials back, I am not mad! are these like frenzy's throes?
Mine is the darkness of the dead; but ah! not that repose.
Ambition's dream is all dissolved, and my awakened glance
Beholds the blood-red field of war divested of romance.
I've taken from his cold, dead grasp, the gore-beclotted blade
By which, perchance, some mother's hope, like mine, was lowly laid;
And vict'ry's ours—the very air with sounds of triumph's fraught,
But riven hearts like mine can tell how dearly it was bought."
The banners of our ancient house, the trophies of the past;
There's tidings from the battle-plains, a glorious conquest's ours,
And victry's flags shall float anew from his ancestral towers.
We know the legends of our race, the deeds our fathers done,
Their dauntlessness and chivalry are richly thine, my son.
And now when triumph fills our land, each home rejoicings hold—
How proudly shall I welcome thee, my beautiful, my bold!
Why tarry, then, my son, my son? I long to clasp thee now—
Come, with the laurels bravely won upon thy bright young brow.
Oh, high as valiant is the blood that courses through thy veins!
Come, and unstain'd escutcheons heir, and all these vast domains.
Thy halls are filled with minstrelsy, and spread the festive board
With every luxury that home and far-off lands afford;
And I with all a mother's heart, in triumph and in pride,
Shall enter in my country's joys, when thou art by my side.
Hark, hark! a hoof is on the breeze, a harbinger is nigh;
At sounds of coming carriage wheels the portals open fly.
But why, Sir Knight, thy cheek so pale, thy words so strange and wild?
Why from his mother's doating arms still lingers back my child?
And why prevails deep silence now throughout these crowded halls,
As heavy tread of martial feet upon the marble falls?
Oh God! the truth, the fearful truth, hath met my stricken sight—
My boy is borne to his proud home with features still and white;
His radiant locks fall dark with gore upon his forehead cold,
Those locks which sunbeams loved to kiss, and kindle into gold;
His young life-blood has stain'd his vest, a sabre wound is there—
What hand dare slay the widow's son, the noble's orphan heir,
The scion of a spotless race, of lineage high and proud?
But what avails to mould or worm, who lies beneath the shroud!
Is this the glory battle yields? Take, take the wreath away
Which mocks his icy brow; and, oh! re-animate that clay.
Back, menials back, I am not mad! are these like frenzy's throes?
Mine is the darkness of the dead; but ah! not that repose.
Ambition's dream is all dissolved, and my awakened glance
Beholds the blood-red field of war divested of romance.
I've taken from his cold, dead grasp, the gore-beclotted blade
By which, perchance, some mother's hope, like mine, was lowly laid;
And vict'ry's ours—the very air with sounds of triumph's fraught,
But riven hearts like mine can tell how dearly it was bought."