The hillock at my feet grows warm—beneath it beats a heart
Whose pulses wake to utterance, whose accents make me start;
That heart hath beat in battle, when the thunder-cloud was high,
And death, in every form of fate, careering through the sky;
Beside it now, another heart, in peace but lately known,
Beats with a kindred pulse, but hath a story of its own.
Ah! sad the fate of maiden whose lover falls in fight,
Condemned to bear, in widowhood, the lonely length of light;—
The days that come without a sun, the nights that bring no sleep;
The long, long watch, the weariness, the same, sad toil—to weep!