| |
(From The Loves of the Plants)
SO stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height, | |
| O’er Minden’s plain, spectatress of the fight. | |
| Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife | |
| Her dearer self, the partner of her life; | |
| From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, | 5 |
| And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. | |
| Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread | |
| Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led; | |
| And one fair girl amid the loud alarm | |
| Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm; | 10 |
| While round her brows bright beams of honor dart, | |
| And love’s warm eddies circle round her heart. | |
| Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed, | |
| Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest; | |
| Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove, | 15 |
| Bright stars of gold and mystic knots of love; | |
| Heard the exulting shout, “They run! they run!” | |
| “Great God!” she cried, “he ’s safe! the battle ’s won!” | |
| A ball now hisses through the airy tides, | |
| (Some fury winged it, and some demon guides!) | 20 |
| Parts the fine looks her graceful head that deck, | |
| Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; | |
| The red stream, issuing from her azure veins, | |
| Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. | |
| “Ah me!” she cried, and, sinking on the ground, | 25 |
| Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound; | |
| “O, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn! | |
| Wait, gushing life, O, wait my love’s return!” | |
| Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far! | |
| The angel Pity shuns the walks of war! | 30 |
| “O, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age; | |
| On me, on me,” she cried, “exhaust your rage!” | |
| Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed, | |
| And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest. | |
| From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies, | 35 |
| Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes; | |
| Eliza’s name along the camp he calls, | |
| “Eliza” echoes through the canvas walls; | |
| Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread, | |
| O’er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead, | 40 |
| Vault o’er the plain, and in the tangled wood, | |
| Lo! dead Eliza weltering in her blood! | |
| Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds, | |
| With open arms and sparkling eye he bounds: | |
| “Speak low,” he cries, and gives his little hand, | 45 |
| “Eliza sleeps upon the dew-cold sand”; | |
| Poor weeping babe with bloody fingers pressed, | |
| And tried with pouting lips her milkless breast. | |
| “Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake,— | |
| Why do you weep? Mamma will soon awake.” | 50 |
| “She ’ll wake no more!” the hapless mourner cried. | |
| Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands, and sighed; | |
| Stretched on the ground, awhile entranced he lay, | |
| And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay; | |
| And then upsprung with wild convulsive start, | 55 |
| And all the father kindled in his heart: | |
| “O heavens!” he cried, “my first rash vow forgive; | |
| These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!” | |
| Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest, | |
| And clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. | 60 |
| |
