XIX.
'Twas midnight, as with silent tread,
Like one who bears the coffined dead,
His valiant troopers Marion led
Through long and dark defile;
And on they marched till morning light
With streaks of crimson touched the night;
Then, unannounced by trumpet-clang,
Fell on the slumb'ring foe;
Swift to his post each warrior sprang,
Above, around, below;
And soon in close and eager strife,
As o'er the tomb meet Death and Life,
The hostile forces stood;
The sabre flashed in day's bright eye,
The whizzing shot, death-winged, swept by,
The turf grew red with blood;
And where the charge was hottest made,
Where boldest fell the flashing blade,
Was Huon foremost there;
And ever near his daring hand
The youngest, gentlest of his band,
Stood Lennard on that day;
Fierce raged the conflict o'er the dead,
Until, o'erpowered, the vanquished fled;
Yet ere they left the fray
One aimed the bloody lance he bore
At Huon's heart—a moment more,
And Lennard fell, his life-blood o'er
The green turf welling fast;
The blade that sought his leader's breast
His hand aside had cast;
Swift to his aid his comrades prest;
The death-hue on his forehead lay
As Huon flung both sword and lance
With quivering lip away,
And met in Lennard's dying glance
The smile of Morna Grey.