Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,—
XXVI.
A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done
Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:
There sad spectatress of her country’s woe!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow
On Waldegrave’s shoulder, half within his arm