Where’er a triumph might be won—
In danger as in glory nigh,
An angel-guide to victory!
She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze
Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze.
Was it some vain illusion, wrought
By frenzy of impassion’d thought?
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power
To summon in her wandering hour?
No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d—