Yet not for him unconscious slumbering there
The maiden mourned; far, far her thoughts were sped
With one who late had gone albeit to share
A soldier’s lot, fame—or a grave instead;
Perchance ’twere both, his fate was still unread.
’Tis thus suspense ill brooks the heart’s control:
She turned unto the casement half in dread,
As if her thoughts the night-winds could condole;
Her smothered words bespeak the anguish of her soul.
XI.
“O thou pale moon, arrayed in sombre hues,
Thou lookest o’er the earth in awe sublime,
Like some sad, pitying spirit when it views
The mortal clod that linked it once to time.
Oh, tell me, for ’tis said that in thy clime
Fate’s mystic scroll is seen for e’er unrolled,
Tell me he lives. Ah, no!—I hear the chime
That speaks the death-note of the brave and bold;
Let fate take back her scroll, the tale must not be told.”
XII.
Time measures woe; her reign he oft makes brief,
Oft lights the smile that decks the shining tear,
When Hope would fling aside the web of grief,
And over all would in full view appear.
’Twas thus Irene could dash aside all fear,
Could see returning from the unequal strife
Her best beloved, the beauteous South so dear
To both triumphant still, and honors rife
Bestrewn along the path to deck their future life.
XIII.
Away delusive dream!—the soldier wakes,
And round him casts a strange, bewildered eye,
Pale o’er his couch the struggling moonlight breaks;
Irene, half-startled, checks the smothering sigh,
Looks strangely round, nor scarce can wonder why
Slumber hath flown. Then turns she most in fright
To where the scarce-seen lamp is smouldering by,—
Flushed o’er the room a tide of yellow light,
As fled the darkened shades back to the wings of night.