When its fierce rage hath pass'd you'll say not so;

His life have I sav'd, though you laid him low.
Love yet can revive

The life Hate may rive,

And the victim save from Ambition's blow.

The fight is o'er-amidst the dead
A damsel steps with shudd'ring tread,
And scans with anxious eye each face,
In hope a brother's form to trace.
Ha! wherefore starts that lady fair ?—
Why falls she on her knees ?-
Alas! her bosom's only care
A mangled corpse she sees.
No more can her love-teeming heart
Soft pleasure to his soul impart ;
Deaf to her fond, but fruitless cries
Upon the gore-stain'd earth he lies.
What now to her is life or health ?-
Dead is her pure breast's only wealth.
Frantic with rage, and grief, and pain,

She snatch'd a dagger from the plain ;

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This, this," she cried, "will end my woes

When by her side a groan arose.

دو

'Twas he—that Knight young Love had shot,

The maiden heard his cry:

:

"Hence! be the thought of death forgot!" She threw the dagger by;

She gazed, and felt Compassion's birth,
She raised him from the clammy earth,

She pluck'd the sword haft from his side,
For aid to her attendants cried;

"And though an enemy," she said,

Why let him perish 'mongst the dead?
Some sister, perhaps, like me may mourn,
Or fondly wait for his return ;—
To my dark home one bier shall bear
Those whom my love and pity share.”

They placed him beside her brother so dear;From the maid's soft eyes gushed the pearly tear; "Ha! ha!"-quoth young Love, as he mark'd the scene, "Nor Hate, nor Ambition have won, I ween;

E'en now in each breast

I'm making my nest,

Love ever follows where Pity has been."

Quoth Hate, with a frown, "Cease thou prattling boy! Be sure that ere long we will mar your joy."

Ambition looked up from his feast of gore,

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Stay, stay!" he exclaim'd—“ the game is not o'er ; If we interpose

They will soon be foes.

For Love must away where we keep the door."

Night fled, and o'er that scene of blood,

As loath to gild the reeking flood

The sun began to rise;

The raven flapp'd his wings, and fled,
The dying turn'd him on his bed,
And oped his weary eyes.

Oh! where is now the pride of strife
Which yestermorn display'd-
Oh! where the host with Glory rife,
In glitt'ring state array'd?

Where now the pomp of gilded war?
Where now the victor's stately car ?-
The barbed steed—the mailed Knight—
The plumed helm-the falchion bright—
The trumpet with its tuneful bray-
The bow-the spear-the pennon gay?
All-all are gone, or scatter'd round
In wild confusion strew the ground.

But who are they, that o'er the plain
Mix with the dying and the slain ?—
Are they sweet Mercy's servants-No :-
They come to strip the fallen foe;
The raven followers of war,
They scent the battle from afar;

With greedy eye and gaping pouch
Beside each mangled form they crouch,
And should the victim dare refuse,
Death the imprudent act pursues.

"And where is he," a miscreant cried

"Where is that princely knight,

Whom yester morning I descried
Commingling with the fight?

His casque glanced bright with golden sheen,

Of silver was his shield I ween,

--

His sword with jewels bright was drest ;-
Lo! here that sword-now where the rest ? "
"Ha! sayest thou"-a voice replied;
"I would my friend thou knowedst where."
He look'd-a stranger stood beside
Of gallant mien and stately air;
Not so, I ween, that stranger's soul,
Defiled with passions rank and foul:
Alas! the world is all a masque,

'Neath whose fair show dark serpents bask:
Go! thread the mazy whirl awhile,
And deeply probe each specious wile;
So shalt thou find Deception sly
Beneath Truth's honest aspect lie;
And bitter Treach'ry's noxious form
Assume the guise of Friendship warm;
While Pleasure's aspect bright shall show
Where Mis'ry's deadly waters flow.

The rich-clad stranger thus resumed,—

"The Knight thou nam'st to death is doom'd,

His body to disgrace;

And large reward, and honor great,

And royal thanks that man await

Who his retreat shall trace."

Then quoth that churl,-" Reward be mine! Before to-morrow's sun shall shine

I'll gain the prize, or ne'er." Thus av'rice can the heart entwine, And deadly hate ensnare.

*

*

*

*

"Now rest, Sir Percy, in thy bed,

Nor pant thy armour to assume, Thou little think'st how many bled To deck one favor'd hero's plume.

"Five thousand widows husbands claim, Their sires five thousand orphans mourn,

Five thousand fathers from the slain

With tears their stricken sons have borne.

"The battle field may be to them

That gain thereby a kingdom-well; But unto soul-possessing men,

What is it but a gory hell?

Thus sang fair Ellen to the Knight,
As wept she o'er his piteous plight.
From three deep wounds the red stream well'd,
His gallant heart the thought repell❜d:
What!-he-a hardened warrior lay

Child-like-upon a couch?

How yearn'd his spirit for the fray,

And scorn'd pain to avouch.
Yet still that angel form stood by,
And mark'd each movement of his eye,
And strove to wean his war-fed mind
To thoughts more noble and refined.

When night's dark hour was wearing late,
There came a stranger to the gate;-