The Field of Battle
Faintly bray'd the battle's roar
Distant down the hollow wind;
Panting Terror fled before,
Wounds and death were left behind.
The War-fiend curs'd the sunken day,
That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon;
While, scarcely lighting to the prey,
Low hung and lowr'd the bloody moon.
The field, so late the hero's pride,
Was now with various carnage spread;
And floated with a crimson tide,
That drench'd the dying and the dead.
O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandon'd all to horrors wild,
With frantic step Maria flew,
Maria, Sorrow's early child;
By duty led, for every vein
Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame:
With Edgar o'er the wintry main
She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came.
For well she thought, a friend so dear
In darkest hours might joy impart;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,
Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart.
Though look'd for long—in chill affright,
(The torrent bursting from her eye)
She heard the signal for the fight—
While her soul trembled in a sigh—
She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge the' inglorious stay;
His manly heart the charm confess'd—
Then broke the charm,—and rush'd away.
Too soon, in few—but deadly words,
Some flying straggler breath'd to tell,
That in the foremost strife of swords
The young, the gallant Edgar fell.’
She press'd to hear—she caught the tale—
At every sound her blood congeal'd;
With terror bold—with terror pale,—
She sprung to search the fatal field.
Her the sad scene in dire amaze
She went—with courage not her own—
On many a corpse she cast her gaze—
And turn'd her ear to many a groan.
Drear anguish urged her to press
Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd;
Of comfort glad, the drear caress
The damp, chill, dying hand return'd.
Her ghastly hope was well nigh fied
When late pale Edgar's form she found,
Half-buried with the hostile dead,
And bor'd with many a grisly wound.
She knew—she sunk—the night-bird scream'd,
—The moon withdrew her troubled light,
And left the Fair,—though fall'n she seem'd—
To worse than death—and deepest night.
Distant down the hollow wind;
Panting Terror fled before,
Wounds and death were left behind.
The War-fiend curs'd the sunken day,
That check'd his fierce pursuit too soon;
While, scarcely lighting to the prey,
Low hung and lowr'd the bloody moon.
The field, so late the hero's pride,
Was now with various carnage spread;
And floated with a crimson tide,
That drench'd the dying and the dead.
O'er the sad scene of dreariest view,
Abandon'd all to horrors wild,
With frantic step Maria flew,
Maria, Sorrow's early child;
By duty led, for every vein
Was warm'd by Hymen's purest flame:
With Edgar o'er the wintry main
She, lovely, faithful wanderer, came.
For well she thought, a friend so dear
In darkest hours might joy impart;
Her warrior, faint with toil, might cheer,
Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart.
Though look'd for long—in chill affright,
(The torrent bursting from her eye)
She heard the signal for the fight—
While her soul trembled in a sigh—
She heard, and clasp'd him to her breast,
Yet scarce could urge the' inglorious stay;
His manly heart the charm confess'd—
Then broke the charm,—and rush'd away.
Too soon, in few—but deadly words,
Some flying straggler breath'd to tell,
That in the foremost strife of swords
The young, the gallant Edgar fell.’
She press'd to hear—she caught the tale—
At every sound her blood congeal'd;
With terror bold—with terror pale,—
She sprung to search the fatal field.
Her the sad scene in dire amaze
She went—with courage not her own—
On many a corpse she cast her gaze—
And turn'd her ear to many a groan.
Drear anguish urged her to press
Full many a hand, as wild she mourn'd;
Of comfort glad, the drear caress
The damp, chill, dying hand return'd.
Her ghastly hope was well nigh fied
When late pale Edgar's form she found,
Half-buried with the hostile dead,
And bor'd with many a grisly wound.
She knew—she sunk—the night-bird scream'd,
—The moon withdrew her troubled light,
And left the Fair,—though fall'n she seem'd—
To worse than death—and deepest night.
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