The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/The Warrior
THE WARRIOR.
A SKETCH.
The warrior went forth in the morning light,—
Waved like a meteor his plume of white,
Scarce might his gauntleted hand restrain
The steed that snorted beneath the rein;
Yet curbed he its pride, for upon him there
Gazed the dark eye of his ladye fair.
She stood on the tower to watch him ride,—
The maiden whose hand on his bosom had tied
The scarf she had worked,—she saw him depart
With a tearless eye, though a beating heart;
But when the knight of her love was gone,
She went to her bower to weep alone.
The warrior past,—but first he took
At the castle-wall one parting look,
And thought of the evening when he should bring
His ladye his battle offering;
Then like a thought he dashed o'er the plain,
And with banner and brand came his vassal train.
It was a thrilling sound to hear
The bugle's welcome of warlike cheer;
It was a thrilling sight to see
The ranks of that gallant company:
Many were there stately and tall,
But Edith's knight was the first of all.—
The day is past, and the moonbeams weep
O'er the many that rest in their last cold sleep;
Near to the gashed and the nerveless hand
Is the pointless spear and the broken brand;
The archer lies like an arrow spent,
His shafts all loose and his bow unbent;
Many a white plume torn and red,
Bright curls rent from the graceful head,
Helmet and breast-plate scattered around,
Lie a fearful show on the well-fought ground;
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!