Bitterly, deeply I've drunk of thy woe;
When thy stream was troubled, did mine calmly flow?
And yet I repent not; I'd crush thee again
If our vessels sailed adverse on life's stormy main.
But listen! The earth is our campaign of war,
Her children are rank and her kingdom's spread far.
Who shall say Hah! to the mingling star?
Is there not havoc and carnage for thee
Unless thou couchest thy lance at me?
The heart in my bosom beats high at the thought
Of the deeds which by blended strength may be wrought.
Then might thy Mary bloom blissfully still,
This hand should ne'er work her sorrow or ill,
No fear of grief in her bright eyes should quiver;
I'd love her and guard her for ever and ever.
What! shall Zamorna go down to the dead
With blood on his hand that he wept to have shed?
What! shall they carve on his tomb with the sword
The slayer of Percy, the scourge of the Lord?
Bright flashed the fire in the young Duke's eye
As he spoke in the tones of the trumpet swelling;
Then he stood still and watched earnestly