Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there One sate young and fair; and oh! how desolate! They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot And left them, with the history of their lot, For her whose home of other days had been Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast but fear, And by its might upborne all else above, She shrank not-mark'd not that the dead were near. Of him alone she thought, whose languid head Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound Yet hoped, still hoped!-Oh! from such hope how long Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, The blow indeed can fall! So bow'd she there, Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down, And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place, Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face, Whereby she caught its changes: to her eye, The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze, Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony, Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze, When voice was not that fond sad meaning pass'd— She knew the fulness of her wo at last! One shriek the forests heard,-and mute she lay, And cold; yet clasping still the precious clay Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth Is far apart. Now light, of richer hue Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew; The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play'd, Bright-colour'd birds with splendour cross'd the shade, Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke Into young life and joy all happy things. And she too woke from that long dreamless trance, Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief, Whose home look'd sad-for therein play'd no child- Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, To that lone cabin of the woods; and there, Won by a form so desolately fair, Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung, O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung, Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head, And life return'd, Life, but with all its memories of the dead, To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore, A daughter to the land of spirits go, And ever from that time her fading mien, And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, Had haunted their dim years; but Edith's face Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place, And they again seem'd parents. The rich, deep blessedness-tho' earth's alloy, Fear, that still bodes, be there-of pouring forth The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth |