He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow,
And bounded from me with his father’s sword!
Thou weep’st—I tremble! Thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf—the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o’er the plain
Where hosts have met: speak! answer!—was he there?
Oh! hath his smile departed? Could the grave
Shut o’er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?
No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave!——
That look gives hope—I knew it could not be!