| |
| STILL, still is that heart, lovely maid! erst so warm, | |
| And pale thy fair cheek, and thy once lovely form | |
| Is cold as the marble that bends o’er thy tomb— | |
| Thou art gone in the pride of thy youth and thy bloom! | |
| |
| There were friends weeping o’er thee, as death dimm’d thine eye; | 5 |
| There was one standing by thee who breathed not a sigh: | |
| By him not a murmur of sorrow was spoken— | |
| But he thought of thy fate with a heart that was broken! | |
| |
| His mind as he stood there had travell’d far back | |
| Through the vista of years, o’er life’s desolate track, | 10 |
| To those warm sunny hours when his bosom was young, | |
| And when on thy accents delighted he hung. | |
| |
| Then he left thee to mourn o’er his absence and pass’d | |
| To where flouted war’s banner and sounded her blast— | |
| And he thought of the battle-field gory and red, | 15 |
| The despair of the dying, the blood that was shed: | |
| |
| Then a dim dungeon vault next arose on his sight, | |
| Where no voice ever entered, no glimmering of light, | |
| But in darkness and horror months, years pass’d away, | |
| Till he wish’d for that night which endureth for aye! | 20 |
| |
| He died not—but after long time was set free; | |
| Then how bounded his heart at remembrance of thee! | |
| To the maiden he loves with what ardor he’s flying! | |
| He rushes to meet thee—behold thou art dying! | |
| |
| He stood by thy couch as life faded away; | 25 |
| With a firm step he walk’d in thy funeral array; | |
| No sigh rent his bosom, no tear-drop did start— | |
| But what language can picture his anguish of heart! | |
| |
| To the battle he hasted, and reckless of life, | |
| His war-cry was heard ’mid the wildest of strife: | 30 |
| When the conflict was past he was sought for in vain, | |
| And he never return’d to his country again. | |
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