And her young voice rose till the peasant shook
At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look:
—“Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead,
And fear not to say that their son hath fled?
—Away! he is lying by lance and shield,—
Point me the path to his battle-field!”
The shadows of the forest
Are about the lady now;
She is hurrying through the midnight on,
Beneath the dark pine-bough.