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For him, the sweet half-opened Flower!
For all—all dying in one hour!
—Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love
Should bear him to his Sister dear
With motion fleet as winged Dove ;
Yea, like a heavenly Messenger,
An Angel-guest, should he appear.
Why comes he not?—for westward fast
Along the plain of York he past;
The Banner-staff was in his hand,
The Imagery concealed from sight,
And cross the expanse, in open flight,
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on ;—nor heeds
The sorrow of the Villages;
From the triumphant cruelties
Of vengeful military force,
And punishment without remorse,
Unchecked he journies—under law
Of inward occupation strong;
