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'd,
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.
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 hath been
Ever, where brave men die,
Unshrinking 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 hour
To lift thy head!
Only the true, the strong,
The love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long
Pours on the dust.
When they do make their ordered houses know them.
Men must be busy out of doors, must stir
The city; yea, make the great
That they are in it; for the mastery
Of which, they race and wrestle.
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 halls a chair of state,
When the blood-red wine was poured;
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;
-Surely these things were all thine own;
So hadst thou thy reward!
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 midnight 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;
O happy, happier than thy lord
In that lone path to heaven!
OWAIN GLYNDWR'S WAR SONG.
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,
ye, my bards! the omen fair
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 hills and lakes!
A sound is on the breeze,
A murmur, as of swelling seas!
The Saxon's on his way!
Lo! spear, and shield, and lance,
From Deva's waves, with lightning glance,
Reflected to 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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