Then start I up, with arms in hand,
What arms the painter bears;
And soon along my kindling wall
The fight at Troy appears.
On! on again! The wrath is here
Of battle rolling red;
Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm,
And dead men fall on dead!
I throng into the inner press.
Where loudest rings the din;
For there, around their hero's corpse,
Fight on his furious kin!
A rescue! rescue! bear him hence
Into the leaguer near;
Pour balsam in his glorious wounds,
And weep above his bier!
And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm;
There hangs my lady's picture near—
A picture, yet so warm!
How fair she was, reclining there;
What languish in her look!
How thrilled her glance through all my frame,
The very pencil shook.
Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
Were all the world to me;
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.
Oh! turn again, and bide thee here,
