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THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.
191
Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?
Thou wert so full of life and joy,
I had not dreamt of this—that thou couldst fall!
Thy mother watches from the steep
For thy returning plume;
How shall I tell her that thy sleep
Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb?
Thou didst not seem as one to die,
With all thy young renown!
—Ye saw his falchion's flash on high,
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!
Slow be your march! the field is won!
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
