While the crow and the raven flock overhead
To feed on the hearts of the helpless dead,
Save when scared by the glaring eye
Of some wretch in his last death agony.—
Lighted up is that castle wall,
And twenty harpers wait in the hall;
On the board is mantling the purple wine,
And wreaths of white flowers the maidens twine;
For distant and faint is heard the swell
Of bugles and voices from yonder dell,—
The victors are coming: And by the tower
Had Edith watched for the midnight hour.
Oh, that lone sickness of the heart,
Which bids the weary moments depart,
Yet dreads their departing; the cross she held fast,
And kissed off the tears—they are come at last!
But has not the bugle a plaining wail,
As the notes of its sadness come on the gale?
Why comes there no shout of the victors' pride,
As red from the battle they homewards ride?
Yet high o'er their ranks is their white banner borne,
While beneath droops the foeman's, blood-stained and torn.
Said not that young Warrior thus it should be
When he talked to his Edith of victory?
Yet, Maiden, weep o'er thy loneliness,
Is not yon dark horse riderless?
She flew to the gate,—she stood there alone,—
Where was he who to meet her had flown?
The dirge grew plain as the troop came near,—
They bear the young Chieftain cold on his bier!
L. E. L.
