With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp’d,
And a banner of France to his bosom clasp’d,
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace,
And the face—oh! speak not of that dead face!
As it lay to answer love’s look no more,
Yet never so proudly loved before!
She quell’d in her soul the deep floods of woe,—
The time was not yet for their waves to flow;
She felt the full presence, the might of death,
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath;