Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848

X

But the words they spoke were short and few —
A soldier must be to his duty true;
And ere a half hour had hastened by,
She watched his steed as it hurried nigh,
O'er the verdant plain to the cedars tall,
Where his men were waiting their leader's call.
As she dashed the drops that dimmed her sight,
From the dark-fringed lids where they trembled bright,
A rustling was heard in the brushwood near,
And a crone, whose wild and fantastic gear
Betrayed the erring of mind within,
Stood in her presence with mocking grin.
"Said I not sorrows in dark array,
Crowded the future of Morna Grey?
Why from the cheek do the roses fly?
Where is the light of the flashing eye?
Where has the rounded lips, ruby red,
Gone, since we parted beside the dead?
The white owl entered the casement high,
O'er the brow of the dying I saw it fly;
Presager of death! I hailed its wing,
She scorned the omen but felt the sting
Of bitter grief, when another day
Bore her angel Mother from earth away.
I warned her, when on the coming blast
I saw the phantom-like shades flit past;
She smiled on my words as idle play,
But wept when her sire, in the midnight fray,
Felled to the dust by the Tory's blade,
Died in the home where his bones are laid;
When the cold drops stood on the forehead fair,
And the curdling blood on the thin, gray hair.
But the dead in silence forgotten sleep;
She is weaving on earth a vision deep,
Of joyous hopes that must fade and die,
Like the bow that smiles when the tempests fly,
In vain the strength of her youth is shed,
In a path where she trembles and fears to tread;
In vain – in vain would the fragile form,
Brave the hot breath of the cannon's storm;
The bullet speeds on its mission free —
A broken heart and a grave I see."

"Though dark my way, I fear it not;
Speed, woman, to thy sheltered cot,
Lest thou, with no protector nigh,
Should catch some hostile wanderer's eye.
My trust is in that mighty Power,
Who rules the battle's wildest hour;
And woman's love is like the flower
That bloometh not in sunny bower;
But when the dark and solemn night,
Has gathered round with storm and blight,
Unfolds its petals bright and rare,
And sheds its fragrance on the air;
And if it dare and peril all,
Asks only to preserve or fall,
His bleeding land requires his arm —
God will protect the brave from harm."

"Behold!" and Morna turned to gaze
Upon the huge tree, dark and lone,
The withered finger of the crone
Marked out, and glancing in the rays
Of morn, beheld a serpent coil
Its glossy length, with easy toil,
Up the brown trunk, till close it hung
Above the wild bird's nest and young;
While round and round, with scream of dread,
The frighted bird in anguish fled;
And vainly sought to drive the foe
From his dark aim again below.

XI

Moments there are when Reason's control,
Yieldeth to Fancy in heart and soul;
When the spirit views with prescient eye,
The common light and shaded sky,
An omen finds in the falling leaf,
And symbols in all things of joy or grief.
And this was one, for on that failing strife
Had Morna cast her dearest hope in life.
Must she behold with power as vain to shield,
Earth's only blessing from her presence torn?
Was there a fiercer pang for her revealed
In that short conflict than she yet had known?
Her dark eyes grew more wildly bright,
And gleamed with an intenser light,
As closer drew the venomed fang,
And shrill the lone bird's accents rang.
But, hark! a shot – a rustling fall —
Approaching steps – a sportman's call —
The parent bird is in the dust;
And o'er the path that homeward led,
With fleeting step fair Morna fled,
And breathed a prayer of thanks and trust.