grave

Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid,
Under their banners of battle she prayed;
With her pale fair brow and her eyes of love
Upraised to the Virgin's portrayed above,
And her hair flung back, till it swept the
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave;
And her fragile frame, at every blast
That, full of the savage war-horn, passed,
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart,
When it vainly strives from its cage to part
So knelt she in her woe;

A weeper alone with the tearless dead

Oh, they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed,
Or the dust had stirred below!

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone,
Thro' the dash of the sea, thro' the wild wind's moan,
Is her lord returned with his conquering bands?

No! a breathless vassal before her stands !

"Hast thou been on the field? Art thou come from the host?"

"From the slaughter, lady!—all is lost!

Our banners are taken, our knights laid low;
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe;
And thy lord"—his voice took a sadder sound-
"Thy lord he is not on the bloody ground!
There are those who tell that the leader's plume
Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom."

A change o'er her mien and her spirit passed; She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,

She dashed the tears from her kindling eye
With a glance as of sudden royalty,

The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow,

Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow,

And her young voice rose till the peasant shook

At the thrilling tone and the falcon look:

"Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead,

And fear not to say that their son hath fled?

Away! he is lying by lance and shield
Point me the path to his battle-field.”

The shadows of the forest

Are about the lady now;

She is hurrying through the midnight on,
Beneath the dark pine-bough.

There's a murmur of omens in every leaf,

There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief;
The branches that rock to the tempest-strife

Are groaning like things of troubled life;
The wind from the battle seems rushing by
With a funeral march through the gloomy sky;
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,
But her frame in the daring of love is strong;
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne,
And girded all fearful things to scorn.

And fearful things were around her spread,
When she reached the field of the warrior-dead;

There lay the noble, the valiant, low
Ay! but one word speaks of deeper woe;
There lay the loved on each fallen head
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed;
Sisters were watching in many a home

For the fettered footsteps no more to come;
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken,
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken;
And the fire was heaped and the bright wine poured
For those now needing nor hearth, nor board;
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,

And oh, ye beloved of women, farewell!

Silently, with lips compressed,

Pale hands clasped above her breast,
Stately brow of anguish high,
Death-like cheek, but dauntless eye;
Silently o'er that red plain,

Moved the lady 'midst the slain.

Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry,
Or the ringing tramp of a steed came nigh;
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn,
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne,
And her maidens trembled-but on her ear
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear;
They had less of mastery to shake her now
Than the quivering erewhile of an aspen bough;
She searched into many an unclosed eye
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky;

She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast,
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest

Not there, not there he lay :

"Lead where the most hath been dared and done, Where the heart of the battle hath bled-lead on! And the vassal took the way.

He turned to a dark and lonely tree

That waved o'er a fountain red:
Oh! swiftest there had the currents free
From noble veins been shed,
Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed,
And the scattered plumage streamed,
And the broken shields were tossed,
And the shivered lances crossed,
And the mail-clad sleepers round
Made the harvest of that ground.

He was there! the leader amidst his band,
Where the faithful had made their last vain stand;
He was there! but affection's glance alone
The darkly changed in that hour had known;
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped,
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped,
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace,
And the face-oh! speak not of that dead face!
As it lay to answer love's look no more,
Yet never so proudly loved before!

She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe,-
The time was not yet for their waves to flow :

She felt the full presence, the might of death,
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath;
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,

As she turned to his followers "Your lord is there!

Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!

Bear him away with his sires to rest!"

Another day, another night,

And the sailor on the deep

Hears the low chant of a funeral rite

From the lordly chapel sweep.

It comes with a broken and muffled tone,

As if that rite were in terror done;

Yet the song midst the seas hath a thrilling power,
And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour.

Hurriedly, in fear and woe,

Through the aisle the mourners go;
With a hushed and stealthy tread,

Bearing on the noble dead;

Sheathed in armour of the field-
Only his wan face revealed,
Whence the still and solemn gleam

Doth a strange sad contrast seem
To the anxious eyes of that pale band,
With torches wavering in every hand,

For they dread each moment the shout of war,
And the burst of the Moslem's scimitar.

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend,
No brother of battle, no princely friend:

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