THE WARRIOR.
313
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?
