Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Death’s Doings/The Warrior
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THE WARRIOR |
THE WARRIOR.
It came upon the morning wind
One loud and thrilling tone,
And distant hills sent forth their voice,—
The trumpet-call was blown.
And sterner grew each stately brow
As that war-blast pass'd by,
And redder grew each warrior cheek,
Brighter each warrior eye.
But other cheeks grew pale to hear,
And other eyes grew dim;
Woman shares not man's battle joy—
That joy is all for him.
The same blast lights the glance of flame,
Darkens the martial frown;
At which a woman's rose-lip fades,—
At which her heart sinks down.
Proudly that trumpet sweeps thy hills,
Land of the sword and shrine,
It calls the soldier of the cross
To fight for Palestine.
It roused one tent, which stood apart
Within the barrier made
By many a green and creeping shrub
And one tall palm-tree's shade.
It roused a warrior and his bride—
His bride! What doth she there?
Oh, rather ask, when led by love,
What will not woman dare?
Said I, her timid nature was
Like her cheek's timid hue;
But fearful though that nature be,
She hath her courage too.
Go ask the fever couch, the cell
Of guilt; she hath no part
In courage of the head and hand,
She hath that of the heart.
'Tis this has brought that gentle one
From her fair Provence bower,
Where in her husband's halls she dwelt,
Nurs'd like a lovely flower.
That trumpet-call, it roused them both
From a sweet dream of home,
Roused him to hopes that with such sound
To gallant spirits come.
And she,—at least she hid the fears
That clouded her fair brow,—
Her prayers had guarded him in fight,
Might they not guard him now?
She armed him, though her trembling hand
Shook like a leaf the while;—
The battle had his onward glance,
But she his lingering smile.
She brought the blue and broidered scarf,
Her colours for his breast;
But what dark dreary shape has brought
His helm and plumed crest?
Fell shade! they see, they heed thee not,
Thou of the noiseless wing,
The viewless shaft, the sudden call—
O Death, here is thy sting.
The lips would close in pious hope,
The eyes in willing sleep,
But for the tears, the bitter tears,
That love is left to weep.
'Tis evening—and the blood-red west
Has not so deep a red,
As hath that slaughter-field where lie
The dying and the dead.
'Tis midnight—and the clang of steel,
The human shout and cry,
Are silent as if sleep and peace
Were upon earth and sky.
The strife is past like other storms,
Soldier and chief are gone,
Yet lightly falls a woman's step—
What doth she there alone?
'Tis she! the Provence Rose; oh, well
Such name beseems her now,
The pale and stony dead around
Wear not more ghastly brow.
Woe for her search—too soon she finds
Her valiant knight laid low;
Thou fatal helm, thou hast betrayed
His head to the life-blow.
One blasting gaze—one loud wild shriek,—
She sinks upon his breast:
O Death! thou hast been merciful,—
For both, both are at rest.
L. E. L.