While woman’s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.
XXXIV.
Then mournfully the parting bugle bid
Its farewell, o’er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid
His face on earth;—him watched, in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation’s name:
Casting his Indian mantle o’er the youth,
He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came