Nursed Combat

    He is come from the land of the sword and shrine,

From the sainted battles of Palestine;

The snow-plumes wave o'er his victor crest,

Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast.

His courser is black as black can be,

Save the brow star white as the foam of the sea,

And he wears a scarf of 'broidery rare,

The last love-gift of his lady fair:

It bore for device a cross and a dove,

And the words, "I am vowed to my God and my love!"

He comes not back the same that he went,

For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been spent;

His golden hair has a deeper brown,

And his brow has caught a darker frown,

And his lip hath lost its boyish red,

And the shade of the South o'er his cheek is spread;

But stately his step, and his bearing high,

And wild the light of his fiery eye;

And proud in the lists were the maiden bright

Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her knight.

But he rides for the home he has pined to see

In the court, in the camp, in captivity.

    He reached the castle,—the gate was thrown

Open and wide, but he stood there alone;

He entered the door,—his own step was all

That echoed within the deserted hall;

He stood on the roof of the ancient tower,

And for banner there waved one pale wall-flower;

And for sound of the trumpet and sound of the horn,

Came the scream of the owl on the night-wind borne;

And the turrets were falling, the vassals were flown,

And the bat ruled the halls he had thought his own.

His heart throbbed high: oh, never again

Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain,

He never might think on his boyish years

Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears

Which Hope and Memory shed when they meet.

The grave of his kindred was at his feet:

He stood alone, the last of his race,

With the cold wide world for his dwelling-place.

The home of his fathers gone to decay,—

All but their memory was pass'd away;

No one to welcome, no one to share

The laurel he no more was proud to wear:

He came in the pride of his war success

But to weep over very desolateness.

They pointed him to a barren plain

Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain;

They showed him the lowly grave, where slept

The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept;

But they could not show him one living thing

To which his withered heart could cling.⁠.⁠.⁠.

    Amid the warriors of Palestine

Is one, the first in the battle-line;

It is not for glory he seeks the field,

For a blasted tree is upon his shield,

And the motto he bears is, "I fight for a grave:"

He found it—that warrior has died with the brave!

The Crusader

From The Literary Gazette, 1823 in Ballads III

    The muffled drum rolled on the air,

Warriors, with stately step, were there;

On every arm was the black crape bound,

Every carbine was turned to the ground;

Solemn, the sound of their measured tread,

As silent and slow, they followed the dead.

The riderless horse was led in the rear;

There were white plumes waving over the bier;

Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,

For, it was a soldier's funeral.

    That soldier had stood on the battle plain,

Where every step was over the slain;

But the brand and the ball had passed him by,

And he came to his native land, to die.

'Twas hard to come to that native land,

And not clasp one familiar hand;

'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,

Before he could hear his welcome said.

But, 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,

And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;

To think, that the friends of his youth might weep,

O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.

    The bugles ceased their wailing sound,

As the coffin was lowered into the ground;

A volley was fired, a blessing said,

One moment's pause—and they left the dead!—

I saw a poor and aged man

His step was feeble, his cheek was wan;

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,

His face was bowed on the cold damp ground;

He raised his head, his tears were done,—

The father had prayed o'er his only son.

The Soldier's Funeral

From The Literary Gazette, 1822 and The Improvisatrice and Other Poems, 1824

    Ay, surely it is here that Love should come,

And find, (if he may find on earth), a home;

Here cast off all the sorrow and the shame

That cling like shadows to his very name.

    Young Love, thou art belied: they speak of thee,

And couple with thy mention misery;

Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom,

The spirit blighted, and the early tomb;

As if these waited on thy golden lot,--

They blame thee for the faults which thou hast not.

Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee

The soil and weight of their mortality?

How can they hope that ever links will hold

Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh gold?

Or worse than even this, how can they think

That vanity will bind the failing link?

How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear

Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air?

Where the lip smiles while the heart's desolate,

And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate;

Where looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain,

And nought of life is real but its pain;

Where the young spirit's high imaginings

Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;

Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd to be

A marvel and a sign for mockery;

Where none must wander from the beaten road,--

All alike champ the bit, and feel the goad.

It is not made for thee, young Love! away

To where the green earth laughs to the clear day,

To the deep valley, where a thousand trees

Keep a green court for fairy revelries,--

To some small island on a lonely lake,

Where only swans the diamond waters break,

Where the pines hang in silence oe'r the tide

And the stream gushes from the mountain side;

These, Love, are haunts for thee; where canst thou brood

With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude.

Love Nursed By Solitude. By W. I. Thomson, Edinburgh

    They fled,—for there was for the brave

Left only a dishonour'd grave.

The day was lost; and his red hand

Was now upon a broken brand,

The foes were in his native town,

The gates were forced, the walls were down,

The burning city lit the sky,—

What had he then to do but fly;

Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet

Revenge might strike, or peace forget!

    They fled,—for she was by his side,

Life's last and loveliest link, his bride,—

Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were gone,

Or linger'd only with that one.

They hasten'd by the lonely way

That through the winding forest lay,

Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind,

And shout and shriek came on the wind;

And twice the warrior turn'd again

And cursed the arm that now in vain,

Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp

The sword that trembled in its clasp.

    At last they reach'd a secret shade

Which seem'd as for their safety made;

And there they paused, for the warm tide

Burst in red gushes from his side,

And hung the drops on brow and cheek,

And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak.

She took her long dark hair, and bound

The cool moss on each gaping wound,

And in her closed-up hands she brought

The water which his hot lip sought,—

And anxious gazed upon his eye,

As asking, shall we live or die?

Almost as if she thought his breath

Had power o'er his own life and death.

    But, hark!—'tis not the wind deceives,

There is a step among the leaves:

Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high,

It is their fiercest enemy;

He of the charm'd and deadly steel,

Whose stroke was never known to heal,—

He of the sword sworn not to spare,—

She flung her down in her despair!

    The dying chief sprang to his knee,

And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully;

But his gash'd arm, what is it now?

Livid his lip, and black his brow,

While over him the slayer stood,

As if he almost scorn'd the blood

That cost so little to be won,—

He strikes,—the work of death is done!

The Combat. By Etty

Poetical Sketches of Modern Pictures, in The Troubadour and Other Poems, 1825

Letitia Elizabeth Landon