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140
THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.
BY L. E. L.
The white plume was upon his head,
The spur upon his heel,
The trumpet rang upon his ear
With a note the dead might feel.
Before him lay a gallant host,
His own, his bannered line,
Where from a thousand silver shields
Flashed back the morning's shine.
He sat upon his raven steed
As a proud ship curbs the deep;
One instant yet he reined his horse—
He heard his lady weep.
"What, weepest thou, lady mine!" he said,
"And thou a soldier's bride!
Dearer should be his fame than aught
In the whole world beside."
"Away!" she cried; "these are not tears
That fall for thee or me—
I weep our infant boy, too young
To fight or follow thee!"
