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WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 179

WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

Where hath not woman stood,
Strong in affection's might?
A reed, upborne
By an o'ermaturing current!

Gentle and lovely form,

What didst thou here,
When the fierce battle storm

Bore down the spear?
Banner and shiver'd crest

Beside thee strown,
Tell, that amidst the best

Thy work was done!
Low lies the stately head,

Earth-bound the free:
How gave those haughty dead

A place to thee?
Slumberer! thine early bier

Friends should have crown'de
Many a flower and tear

Shedding around.
Soft voices, dear and young,

Mingling their swell,
Should o'er thy dust have sung

Earth's last farewell.
Sisters, above the grave

Of thy repose,
Should have bid violets wave

With the white rose.
Now must the trumpet's note,

Savage and shrill,
For requiem o'er thee Boat,

Thou fair and still !

180

WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

And the swift charger sweep,

In full career,
Trampling thy place of sleep

Why cam'st thou here?
Why ?--Ask the true heart why

Woman bath been
Ever, where brave men die,

Unsbrinking seen?
Unto this harvest ground

Proud reapers came,
Some for that stirring sound,

A warrior's name :
Some for the stormy play,

And joy of strife,
And some to fling away

A weary life.

But thou, pale sleeper, thou,

With the slight frame,
And the rich locks, whose glow

Death cannot tame;
Only one thought, one power,

Thee could have led,
So through the tempest's bour

To lift thy head!
Only the true, the strong,

The love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long

Pours on the dust.

MAN AND WOMAN.

181

MAN AND WOMAN.

Womon act their parts
When they do make their ordered houses know them.
Med must be busy out of doors, must stir
The city ; yea, make the great world aware
That they are in it; for the mastery
Of which, they race and wrestle.

Knowles.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,

With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stained window shed;
The records of thy name and race

Have faded from the stone,
Yet through a cloud of years I trace

What thou hast been and done.

A banner from its flashing spear

Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry, ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance

On for the holy shrine,
A haughty heart and kingly glance."

Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate

Around the council-board;
In festive balls a chair of state,

When the blood-red wine was poured ;
A name that drew a prouder tone

From berald, barp, and bard;
-Surely these things were all thing own;

So hadst thou thy reward !
VOL. II.

16

182

MAN AND WOMAN.

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest

By the armed knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er thy breast

In matron robes arrayed ;
What was thy tale?-Oh, gentle mate

Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,

What bard hath sung of thee?
He wooed a bright and burning star ;

Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that followed far

His oft-receding plume;
The heart-sick listening while his steed

Sent echoes on the breeze ;
The pang-but when did Fame take heed

Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours,

Through many a lone day,
While bending o'er thy broidered flowers,

With spirit far away;
Thy weeping midnigbt prayers for him

Who fought on Syrian plains ;
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim,-

These fill no minstrel-strains.
A still sad life was thine !-long years,

With tasks unguerdoned fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,

Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayers at the cross in fervour poured,

Alms to the pilgrims given;
Obappy, bappier than thy lord

In that lone path to heaven!

OWAIN GLYNDWR'S WAR SONG.

183

OWAIN GLYNDWR'S WAR SONG.

Hail fair

Saw ye the blazing star?
The heavens look down on Freedom's war,

And light her torch on high :
Bright on the dragon-crest
It tells that glory's wing shall rest,

When warriors meet to die!
Let earth's pale tyrants read despair
And vengeance in its flame,

conquest and of fame,
And swell the rushing mountain-air,

With songs to Glyndwr's name.
At the dead hour of night,
Marked ye how each majestic height

Burned in its awful beams!
Red shone th' eternal snows,
And all the land, as bright it rose,

Was full of glorious dreams.
Oh! eagles of the battles, rise !

The hope of Gwynedd wakes—
It is your banner in the skies,

Thro' each dark cloud that breaks,
And mantles with triumphal dyes,

Your thousand bills and lakes!

A sound is on the breeze,
A murmur, as of swelling seas!

The Saxon's on bis way!
Lo! spear, and shield, and lance,
From Deva's waves, with lightning glance,
Reflected

the day.
But who the torrent-wave compels

A conqueror's chains to bear?
Let those who wake the soul that dwells

On our free winds, beware!
The greenest and the loveliest dells

May be the lion's lair!

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