The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 20, Pages 33-37
RECORDS OF WOMAN.—NO. IX.
Edith.
The woods—oh! solemn are the mighty woods
Of the great Western world, when Day declines,
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods,
More deep the rustling of the ancient pines;
When dimness gathers on the stilly air,
And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood,
Awful it is for human heart to bear
The gloom and burden of the solitude!
Yet, in that hour, mid those green wastes there sate
One young and fair, and oh! how desolate!
But undismay'd;—while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darken'd with the night.
Alone she sate:—though many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the dewy ground,
Were sever'd from her need and from her woe,
Far as death severs life. O'er that wild spot
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low,
And left them, with the history of their lot,
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene
For her whose home of days had been
Midst the fair halls of England!—but the love
Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear,
And by its might upborne all else above,
She shrank not—mark'd not that the dead were near.
