A Sketch

"They're passing now adown our vale;
    Come, leave the old beech-tree,
And let that humming wheel be staid;
    Come here and gaze with me.

Hark, hark, the gallant trumpet's note,
    The war-drum rolls around;
The crimson banners seem to float
    More proudly at the sound.

Those noble steeds, how each proud neck
    Bends to its rider's hand,
Although the steel-wrought rein is held
    As 't were a silken band!

How bold they ride!—as Victory sat
    Beside each snow-white crest;
Battle is in each eager eye,
    And I can dream the rest.

Each lance is gleaming in the sun,
    War meteors, how they shine!
How glorious is the soldier's lot!
    I would such lot were mine!"

She raised a sudden tearful glance
    Upon his glowing brow:
Why should her cheek be so snow-pale,
    For his is crimson now?

And her sweet face is wont to be
    The shadow of his own,
Where every passing change of his
    Is in a mirror shewn.

"Such, O my Ulric, would'st thou be
    One of yon warrior band?
Why there is death in every heart,
    And blood on every hand.

Bethink thee of how many tears
    Must wash the stains away,
That dim bright armour and proud brow,
    Before the close of day.

I think upon the lonely hearth,
    The desolated home,
The fond hearts listening for the step
    That never more will come.

I think on the linked love of years,
    One moment hath undone;
I gaze on yonder happy child,
    And weep the orphan one."

He met her sad eyes' sweet reproach,
    He caught each gentle word;
The trumpet woke the winds again,
    But it passed by unheard.