To see thy ardent boy denied
To combat by his father's side?
Yet, what is death? As seen in thee,
'Twas a mild summons to the grave;
'Tis the sure zeal of loyalty
And honour's guerdon to the brave.
How are the soldier's requiems kept!
By glory sung, by beauty wept.
"My dearest Eustace," said Isabel, "I wish I could send these lines to my father, yet perhaps they would overcome him as they have done me." She twined her arms around the neck of Eustace, sobbed for some moments, and then observed, "I know what suggested the last stanza; it was Constantia's weeping for the fate of brave Lord Lindsay."
Eustace blushed. "You are a Lancashire witch in more senses than one, Isabel; but, hush! the calash has just drove up. Say not a word of my verses to my uncle." "Why?" "I do not wish he would know I am unhappy." "Keep your own counsel," returned Isabel, "and I am sure your looks will never betray you."